


This Could Lead to Something

by twilightshadow



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcoholism, F/M, M/M, Protests, Re-incarnation, Slow Build, Stupid revolutionaries in love, Violence, possible misrepresentation of police brutatily, shameless mingling of book and movie canon, sorry mr hugo, though not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:28:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightshadow/pseuds/twilightshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris, 2006. Grantaire doesn't recall that Enjolras exists until he quite literally knocks him over. The rest, as they say, is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on tumblr. 
> 
> I would like it to go on record that I have been to Paris all of once in my life, so geography etc. will be a bit vague/totally wrong. 
> 
> The love is a slow build, just telling you now. 
> 
> This chapter: in which hangovers are dealt with, Grantaire is late, and Feuilly is unimpressed.

It’s never unusual for Grantaire to be late on Mondays. Or hungover. Or sleep deprived. Or all three.

This Monday is shaping up to be no different.

Having slept through two alarms, Jehan’s terrible singing in the shower, and three sets of blues-and-twos (ah, Paris), Grantaire is finally pulled from a highly disturbing dream about sheep by Jehan bursting into his room, flinging open the curtains and jumping on him.

“What the fuck, Jehan?!” He sits up with a start, almost toppling the Literature student off the bed and onto the grotty carpet.

“Christ Almighty, R, we’re leaving in ten minutes, and don’t you have that meeting with your course tutor at eleven?”

Grantaire squints at his clock with bleary eyes, thinks LED displays should not wink this cheerfully at 10:45am on a Monday, of all days…

“Ah, _shit._ ” He flops back onto his pillows. His head throbs in protest.

“Don’t you dare, you’re not going to bugger up your grades for this year as well, not on our watch.” Jehan is insistently tugging on his arm. Grantaire makes a note around his hideous headache to rethink his choice of flatmate.

“Our?”

Then Courfeyrac is in the room, tugging on his other arm, and together they bundle Grantaire out of bed and towards the kitchen, shoving aspirin and water into his hands.

“I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” sings Courfeyrac sweetly.

“Yes I do.”

Grantaire waits until their backs are turned, and takes a swig of whiskey out of his hip flask. Much better.

***

But his headache is so bad he can’t concentrate for long enough to remember where this meeting is supposed to be, which is why he’s now on the wrong side of campus and attempting to run.

So when he crashes into something warm, human and _angry_ , it’s hardly surprising.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

Grantaire gets a flash of blonde curls, red jacket and blue eyes. The word _Apollo_ flits across his mind.

So does a stain of darker red across his breast and brow.

He blinks and the image is gone.

The guy is not. He’s picking up some thick sociology textbooks from the concrete where Grantaire has knocked them in his mad dash.

“Crap, sorry. Here, let me help…”

“No thank you, I’ve got it. You’ve caused enough damage for one day.” Red jacket stands up and -

He can’t be real. Nobody real has hair that perfectly tousled, or eyes that shade of blue, or a mouth that kissable, all in one face.

_Holy crap, Apollo doesn’t do him justice._

Apollo is looking at him strangely. Grantaire becomes aware that he is staring, possibly open mouthed. Then he meets his eyes and _something_ _zings_ between them.

It is now necessary to depart.

“Um…right…ok. I have…somewhere to be. See you around…Enjolras…” Grantaire stop speaking, wheels and scurries off.

 He is late for his tutor meeting, but at least his headache has gone.

***

Enjolras is having a bad day. Sleep deprivation and an elusive reference in his politics essay have put him in a foul mood. The boy walking into him does not help this.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” He stoops to pick up his fallen textbooks, counting to ten in his head in German, then Italian, to stop him from ripping the unfortunate fool’s throat out.

“Shit, sorry. Here, let me help…”

“No thank you, I’ve got it, you’ve caused enough damage for one day.” Enjolras snaps. He looks up, meets blue eyes and –

A jolt passes through him. Those eyes. _I’ve seen them before_.

The boy is staring at him, open mouthed. Enjolras thinks for a second he might have been recognised in return, but he closes his mouth, babbles something that includes his name ( _what?)_ and scampers away.

Enjolras, thoroughly confused, stares after him.

***

He sneaks into the back of his sociology lecture, earning himself a look of surprise from Professor Valjean. Combeferre, his lifeline, has saved him his usual seat.

“Insomnia again?” he asks softly.

Enjolras nods. “That, and some idiot who ran into me on the way here.”

Combeferre nods and says little else for the remainder of the lecture, leaving Enjolras free to ponder.

He’s suffered from insomnia his whole life, but lately it’s been getting worse. And when he does sleep, he is plagued with images that make no sense. Narrow streets. A small café or bar. Bayonets and muskets being cleaned. Bullets, stamps. A tattered red flag.

And that boy with the tangled hair and the smell of whiskey. The boy who was familiar. The boy who knew his name.

The boy who really wasn’t important right now. Enjolras turns back to his notes and puts the encounter to the back of his mind.

***

“So, what did he say?”

Jehan is still far too awake for a Monday. And _bouncy_. He makes their picnic table on the sunny quadrangle shudder.

Grantaire shoots Courfeyrac a look that says _He’s your boyfriend, control him_ , which Courf ignores. Grantaire sighs.

“He gave me an ultimatum – finish one piece of extra credit work and he’ll pass me. Overlook the attendance record, the half-arsed assignments – “

“That time you turned up drunk and tried to hit on the life-drawing model,” Feuilly adds. “He filed a restraining order, didn’t he?”

Grantaire glares at him as Jehan and Courf snigger. He takes another swig from his hip flask.

Feuilly looks at him disapprovingly, and he pretends not to notice.

“So, what’s the extra credit?”

“He says it’s up to me, but something with a historical basis.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Hmph.”

Thing is, Grantaire has run out of inspiration.

It used to come easily. In his early teenage years, his sister would complain about being woken up at all hours by Grantaire working on his latest piece. He would wake in the night reaching for a paintbrush, a pencil, a beautiful, blank sheet to fill with his visions.

But none of them were finished. They would bloom onto the canvas, but never all the way. His mind moved fast for him to have any patience with them. His professors would wait on masterpieces that never came. They thought he wasn’t bothered, would talk about wasted potential. Eventually, Grantaire had started to believe them.

What good was an artist who couldn’t finish his paintings?

His spark dimmed. He missed it. Upset by this, he turned to vodka in the hope it would bring it back, or at least give him some motivation to finish just one painting.

It hadn’t. Two years on and his spark has been drowned.

“You’ll think of something,” says Jehan.

Grantaire wishes he had that kind of faith.

But in the end all he has is alcohol, so he turns in that night with a still-blank canvas and a nightcap or four.

***

 It was only then, when he was drifting off, that it occurred to Grantaire that Apollo from earlier had not, in fact, mentioned his name at all. So who, if anyone, was Enjolras, and why was he so certain that that was his name?

He falls asleep before he can question it further.

That's the night his nightmares start. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire is a good friend, gets a shock, and has an argument.

Grantaire awakes, sweating, shaking, and sober, though he’s certain he went to bed on half a bottle of wine, plus most of his hip-flask.

He glances at his clock. 8:32am. _Bollocks._

But there’s no way he’s going back to sleep now, so he heads out to the kitchen to hunt out some coffee.

The dream – nightmare – won’t go away though. _So much death._ And so many of them his friends. Yeah, they drive him round the bend, and if Bahorel gets him thrown out because of bar fighting one more time he will do something desperate but…but he would never wish death on them. Not like this. Not when he can see them, lying in a tangled heap where they fell, blood staining the dusty floorboards.

His hand itches for his hip flask, but it’s empty and back in his bedroom waiting for his next payday. All he’s got is half a bottle of wine, and he knows from experience that wine and coffee do not mix. He stands there in the quiet of the spring morning and tries to let the caffeine still his shaking hands.

 _He’d_ been there too. Apollo, Enjolras, whatever his name was. Fire in his eyes, like just like a vengeful god. Red dripping down his brow as he stared down his own firing squad. And a voice that sounded creepily like his own, calling out, _“J’en suis! Finish us both at one blow.”_ And to his god,“ _Do you permit it?”_

And then the guns went off.

Except it can’t be him. Grantaire makes a point of believing, expecting, and contributing nothing. That way nobody was ever disappointed. There’s no way he has that much conviction in anything, or anyone.

His musings are interrupted by Jehan shuffling in and doing a double take. “R? It’s before nine, are you feeling ok?”

Grantaire nods, chugging back his lukewarm coffee. “Yeah, just…bad dream, that’s all.”

“Oh, poor _cher._ ” Jehan moves over to wrap his arms around the slightly taller man.

“It’s fine, Jehan, really.” But he doesn’t admit that it feels better with the poet in his arms, knowing he’s real and not shot dead for a cause that was never his to die for.

***

Of course, now he’s awake, he has no excuse for missing lectures, so he trudges in and sleeps through the first at ten, then meets Courf and Bahorel for a liquid lunch. The beautiful thing about having these two for friends is that they all agree; it’s never too early for alcohol.

“I need you both tonight. Support,” says Courf, on his second glass of wine.

“Support for what?”

“Jehan picked up this leaflet for this student activist group – Les Amis – and went last week. Said it was good but the leader was unimpressed with turnout cause half their members have just left uni. So, I’ve been instructed to tag along tonight and drag as many of my poor, unsuspecting friends as possible. I’ve already got Feuilly, please say you’ll come too.”

“Activism like what?” Bahorel asks. He sounds guarded but they both know that means he’s curious. And if Feuilly’s in, it’s a done deal for the Law student.

“Anything, so says Jehan. It’s very social justice orientated. Expect lots of angry shouting.”

“Fair enough.” Bahorel turns to Grantaire. “What about you, R?”

“No thanks. You know me, activism’s not really my area.”

“Come on, Taire. Please? For me?” Courf bats his eyelashes.

Grantaire laughs. “That shit only works coming from your boyfriend.”

“Damn,” mutters Courfeyrac. “Ok, how’s this: They meet at the Musain, you remember that café bar just off the Place Saint-Michel? Happy hour all night, cheap alcohol...”

“Damn you Courfeyrac!”

“Is that a yes?”

“…alright, I’ll tag on this once.”

Courf whoops. Honest-to-God whoops. Grantaire puts his head in his hands.

***

He brings his sketchbook along out of habit, ratty round the edges from days and months being shoved in and out of drawers. Every page is blank.

The Musain is a nice enough joint in one of the more student-y areas of town. Not a place Grantaire or any of his friends/drinking partners frequent, but well known among the student population. Jehan and Courfeyrac meet Bahorel and Grantaire inside, wait for them to buy drinks and lead them upstairs to where a small private function room has been cleared. A few students are there already, including Feuilly, talking to a bald bloke with a large beer stain down his shirt from where he’s knocked over his drink. He introduces himself as Bossuet, and warns them not to walk under any ladders around him.

After this, introductions are swift. Joly, a medical student and Bossuet’s ‘best friend’ (hmph, thinks Grantaire, noticing their proximity), stands up to welcome them. “Our resident hypochondriac,” says Bossuet.

“I am not,” Joly states indignantly. “I just take reasonable precautions. Do you have any idea how many dangerous bacteria are crawling around on our skin at this very moment…?”

“Probably a lot,” says Bossuet cheerfully. “Now relax. I’m sure they’re perfectly healthy.”

Joly sticks his tongue out at him, but shakes both their hands.

“Have we met?” he asked.

Grantaire casts his mind back. “No, I don’t think so.”

Joly hums, and says nothing more.

The only other student in the room Grantaire doesn’t know is a younger man with gingery hair, freckles and an open smile. He introduces himself as Marius Pontmercy, first year Law.

Grantaire relaxes in their company. A few other students drift in. The conversation flows easily, lubricated by alcohol and common cause. He slots into their group like he’s been there all his life.

He feels at home for the first time in a long time, so naturally, it’s shattered soon enough.

“Where are the others?” Jehan asks.

Marius checks his phone. “Combeferre hasn’t texted me back. They shouldn’t be long – oh, here they are.”

The door swings open again and –

_Oh fuck it’s him, it’s Apollo oh Christ on a bike R…_

The first person in is a young man with thick-rimmed glasses and a steady countenance. Following him is the Greek God from yesterday. _Enjolras…no, R, don’t be daft, that’s the name you made up for –_

“Hey Combeferre, Enjolras. We wondered where you’d got to.”

_…well shit._

Grantaire is not drunk enough for this.

 “So many new faces! Nicely done, Courf,” says Combeferre in the glasses. Courf beams at him from behind Jehan’s hair (he’s sitting in his lap like an overgrown puppy.)

“But are they committed?” asks Enjolras. His eyes sweep over the gathering and come to rest on Grantaire. Recognition flashes through them. Grantaire feels his stomach drop, not altogether unpleasantly.

“They will be,” says Joly. “Just listen to him talk,” he says to the rest. “He could sell hamburgers to a vegan. Not that he’d want to,” he revised hastily.

A slight smile flitted across Enjolras’ lips.

“What do you talk about?” asks Feuilly.

“Everything,” the golden haired god replies. “The injustices that are faced by the people every day, what we can and should do to combat them. That’s the point of this group. We have voices, and we will be heard. Change is sometimes difficult, occasionally violent, but she is a necessary creature and she is needed now.”

The room has fallen silent.

“The wealth of the world, the power, lies in the hands of the few and the greedy. The fat cats dictate who gets what and when and pocket as much of the change as they can get away with and more. We mean to change that. This needs to stop! The people cannot be oppressed any longer!”

It echoes of another speech, of many other speeches he has long forgotten and never listened to in the first place, and yet he treasured every word.

Grantaire, the cynic, snorts.

Instantly the tension in the room snaps into something much more fragile. All eyes turn to Grantaire, seated in the middle.

“May I voice an opinion, since I have a voice and it must be heard?”

“You may.” His voice is ice. It is music.

“That’s bullshit. Don’t you realise that people _like_ being repressed? It means they don’t have to think. It means they can sit back and be lazy and let Daddy do the talking. 20,000 years of evolution couldn’t change human nature, I don’t see why you think you can.”

Enjolras looks at him. His expression is unreadable. “I can see you’re not an idealist.”

“More of a realist. I’ve seen a million faces and hated most of them.”

“Every person that listens is a bit of change. Every bit of change is a step, however small.”

“Steps leading nowhere.”

“Are you quite finished? Grantaire, wasn’t it?”

Grantaire nods. Then he realises he’s never told Enjolras his name either.

For a crucial second, he is lost for words, and Enjolras turns back to those still listening attentively. “If nobody has anything else to add, I’d like to pick up from last week. Joly, what do we have?”

The meeting picks up, and soon chatter pervades every corner of the room. Grantaire remains quiet, but he’s not listening to the conversations. He’s even forgotten about his beer in front of him.

His sketchbook is open and his pencil is flying as he sketches his god in flames.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire is rude, Enjolras is weirded out, and everyone has crazy-ass dreams.

Being a dual honours student and an activist takes some balance, but Enjolras has had years of practice.

It’s a good thing he’s the sort of person who, at a loose end, is most likely to be found either in the library or at home, pouring over one textbook or another. Combeferre, his best friend since pre-school, has long since learned to work around him, and to leave the kettle full of water and the coffee pot out for when he emerges, bleary-eyed, at some stupid o’clock in the morning after losing track of time.

Wednesday morning finds Enjolras out on campus, proselytising Les Amis de l’ABC, and trying to drum up support for a march happening very soon.  Most students blank him, hurrying away to their next lecture, or home, or to somewhere that isn’t a windy day in April. He tries not to let lack of interest wear him down. Or rile him up. He’d rather not get banned from leafleting again because he started shouting at the students for not caring enough about the world they inhabited.

“And here we see a fine specimen of the student idealist in his natural habitat,” says a sarcastic voice behind him. Grantaire. _Speak of the devil…_

“Just because you hold no views does not give you the right to mock mine,” says Enjolras without looking round.

“Your views are your views, and my opinion on them is that they’re bullshit. I _do_ have the right to a contrary opinion.”

Enjolras does turn at that. Grantaire is wearing a shabby anorak and a red newspaper boy cap that has obviously been well loved. He’s also carrying a hip flask. Enjolras will bet his student loan that it doesn’t contain orange juice.

He’s about to make a cutting remark about how cynicism rots intellect (because Grantaire, despite his obvious alcoholism, is neither slow nor stupid), but what he says is, “How did you know my name?”

Grantaire blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“Yesterday. After you knocked my books over, you babbled something, said ‘See you around, Enjolras,’ and left. How did you know?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Lucky guess? I don’t know. It’s like…you know when you look at a lamppost and just know it’s a lamppost?”

Enjolras isn’t buying it. He’s about to say so, but Grantaire cuts him off. “And while we’re on the subject, how did you know my name last night? I never told you. Nobody mentioned it.”

Enjolras, for once, has nothing to say. “I don’t know,” he admits, finally.

“So you didn’t get it out of Courf, or Jehan?”

“No…”

Grantaire pulls off his cap and runs his fingers through unruly hair. “Well isn’t that weird.”

Enjolras nods his agreement. He’s about to turn back to his flyer-ing, but there’s nobody in sight. Only Grantaire, who is now walking away, shoving his cap back on his head against the wind.

***

His dreams are getting weirder. The random collection of images is gone. The scenes make sense, and it’s for this reason that they don’t make sense.

Some are ordinary. The nine of them sat it the dusty back room of another Musain, in another time. Jehan looks less ridiculous in a cravat than he does usually. Combeferre without his glasses simply looks odd. Marius is shouting about something for once, an impassioned speech about the Battle of Waterloo – not one of Enjolras’ strong subjects – until Combeferre shuts him up with a couple of well-placed words. It could be one of their meetings today, if it wasn’t for an overabundance of waistcoats.

Some are less ordinary. Standing atop a horse and cart with somebody’s coffin, waving a flag, singing a protest song. Enjolras has stood atop many things at many rallies in his time, but never a hearse. Grantaire is there as well – he catches glimpses of him in that red newspaper boy hat of his. There’s an element of surprise attached to the sight, quickly forgotten in the face of gunshots and screams…

He wakes with a start. 3am. With a groan he turns over and buries his face in a pillow. But sleep has fled, and he sits up and switches on his desk lamp with a sigh.

He’s researched recurring dreams. While the crack sites would talk about past lives and destiny and pre-recognition, some had been slightly more scientific. They talked about past traumas, and issues in life that needed resolving. Enjolras is a highly prolific activist, he is aware of plenty of issues, but his own life is cushy by comparison. He has no past traumas of the kind these psychologists talked about. So what the hell is going on?

He opens his laptop. If he’s had his quota of sleep for the night, it’s time to get some work done.

***

He’s not to know it, but Combeferre is also awake and listening to the steady clack of keys through the thin walls. He’s also not to know that he’s awake for precisely the same reason.

He rarely gets nightmares, and doesn’t talk about them because there are people out there who suffer from them to a greater extent than him, his best friend included. And they aren’t even nightmares, just images, of his friends, of another time. But they leave him with a vague sense of uneasiness that even with his logical mind, he can’t shake off.

 _They are just dreams_ he tells himself. _They don’t mean anything._

_So why do they feel like they actually happened?_

***

Jehan never mentions his dreams to the others. They’d think he was making a mountain out of a molehill. But there they are, every single one of his new friends in period clothing, cleaning muskets. Bahorel, the toughest guy he’s ever met, is making pamphlets using what looks like a miniature printing press. A hum of anticipation sits in the air. _The risk, the thought they could die within the next couple of days. They know what happens to failed revolutionaries…_

Jehan wakes, and has to cuddle a pillow to stop shaking. He wishes for Courfeyrac, but the man sleeps like the dead. The fire alarms back in dorms couldn’t wake him, a simple text message would have no chance.

He has never had dreams this vivid before. And unlike most dreams, he can remember these in startling detail.

The scary thing for Jehan is that can imagine himself among them. It’s not one of those far-fetched tales that he would dream up a verse about. Those looking at Jehan, with his general air of ‘flower child’ would mistake him for a pacifist, but he’s thrown punches in his time. He knows how to fight, and how to fight _for_ something.

Still, this is not the first dream of this type he’s had, and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

He’s not sure, however, he will like the way this one plays out.

***

Courfeyrac is fast asleep. He wishes he wasn’t. He’s watching one of his students, a boy he tutors for his sister while she works, get shot in the head.

Apparently, even this is not enough to wake Courfeyrac up.

***

The next Tuesday the atmosphere in the back room of the Musain is subdued. Grantaire may only have been to these meetings once but he knows this is odd.

“What’s up?” he asks Marius.

“Nothing. Just didn’t sleep well. Funny dreams.”

“What, you too?” says Joly.

Next to him, Bahorel sits up. “Like what?”

Grantaire notes the tone of his friend’s voice.

Marius sighs. “I keep seeing this girl…”

Bahorel slumps down again.

“She’s blonde…really, really pretty, and I have no idea what her name is, I just know that she’s out there somewhere. And there’s this other girl, says she’ll find her for me. Same dream, over and over. Most of you are there too.”

“Yeah…you lot have started barging into my dreams as well,” said Joly. “Mind stopping? It’s putting me off.”

“Oh darling, it just means we were meant to be!” Bahorel does an over-exaggerated swoon onto Joly’s shoulder.

“Pack it in…”

Grantaire smiles, his pencil idly sketching the scene before him. A welcome distraction from the uneasiness that has settled under his breastbone.   

***

When he walks into the Musain, there is Grantaire, sitting with Joly and Bahorel. He’s listening to them argue, occasionally interjecting something of his own while he absent – mindedly doodles on a pad in front of him. He just fits.

Enjolras isn’t sure what to make of this.

An idealist will always distrust a cynic. It is not the sort of attitude he wants in his group. Meaningful progress is always held back by doubt, doubt that could be sown by this raven-haired artist.

But he looks out at this ragtag bunch of random students and feels like something is complete.

Precisely what eludes him.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eponine appears, Marius is oblivious, and Grantaire works out just why he like being around Enjolras so much

Grantaire continues to come to the ABC Society meetings every week, without fail, despite his constant cynical interjections and Enjolras’ growing impatience with him. The rest of the group tolerate his highly vocal drunkenness because he’s good company and, for some reason, they enjoy watching Enjolras fly off the handle every now and again.

Grantaire, for his part, loves watching it happen. There is something about this man speaking that lights a spark within him. Not of faith. Not even wholly sexual. He is simply drawn to him, like a magnet. He’s found more than a muse, an inspiration. It may not be helping him with his extra credit but it is irresistible, to watch Enjolras in his element.

Useful then, that he barely spares Grantaire a glance. Unless he’s starting an argument.

Their first rally is set for a weeks’ time. Enjolras is still trying to drum up some interest about a proposed bill that would negatively affect the jobs of young employees. Les Amis are bustling with excitement.

It’s like this is what they were born for.

Grantaire has been volunteered for slogan and sign painting by Bahorel (who had stolen his sketchbook and proclaimed him brilliant, after laughing at how many drawings of Enjolras there were). He works with Jehan, the best with words. He still thinks it’s a bullshit waste of time, but even alcohol cannot protect Grantaire from being caught up in the hive-mind phenomenon.

***

This week, a few days before the small rally on campus, Courfeyrac had bounded in late with a “Really sorry, shit went down…” and dragging behind him a girl maybe two years younger than them and a boy of around ten. The girl looked around at them with a challenging expression, while the boy merely seemed curious. He kept close to the girl’s side.

“Sorry guys, this is Eponine and her brother Gavroche. They’re having some…domestic issues, so I said they could tag along to this. You don’t mind, do you?” He directed this at Enjolras.

“Of course not.”

Eponine is not listening to a word. She’s staring at Marius like he hung the moon. He’s staring back as though he can’t believe it’s her.

Introductions are made, though none of the group can shake the feeling that they know her and her little brother. He gravitates instantly towards Jehan and Grantaire, who soon have him splashing paint around and coming up with his own slogans, some of which are pure genius.

Eponine and Marius however, have fallen deep into conversation. Nobody particularly wants to disturb them, so they’re left to it. But while they’re packing away, and Eponine has hauled Gavroche away (kicking and whining) to scrub the paint off his hands and face, Marius pounces on Grantaire, Courf, Jehan and Feuilly, packing signs into boxes. “It’s her! The girl from my dream!”

“Not the blonde one, surely…”

“Bloody hell, of course not, the other one. She’s actually real! What if the other one’s real as well?”

“Less chinwagging, more clearing,” says Enjolras, who’s standing close by, trying not to eavesdrop.

“He has a point, actually, we’ve all been having funny dreams,” muses Jehan. Indeed, it’s become a topic of conversation among the group.

“We have become a true hive-mind,” jokes Bossuet.

“Does that mean we’re all going to catch your bad luck?” asks Bahorel.

“God help us all,” murmurs Joly. Bossuet punches him in the arm and the rest of them laugh.

“What’s funny?” Eponine has reappeared with an (almost) clean Gavroche in tow.

“Nothing!” says Marius quickly.

“Marius has been dreaming about you,” says Bahorel at the same time.  Marius makes a noise like a mouse being squashed.

“Yes, he mentioned something about that, in between babbling about blondes.”

Marius blushes. The others snigger.

Grantaire looks at Eponine. Her face is carefully blank. He’s been around enough to know what that means.

“Well,” he says loudly. “I’m off to get shitfaced, who wants to join?”

“Me!” Feuilly and Bahorel say in unison.

Eponine looks at them. “Count me in,” she says. “Just give me a chance to get the brat home.”

“I can take him to my place and join you later,” says Courfeyrac quietly. She nods at him gratefully.

“Anyone else?”

Jehan grins. Joly and Bossuet look at each other and shrug. “Sure, why not?”

 Enjolras frowns. “There’s still work to be done. We’re nowhere near ready and the rally’s in a few days.”

“We’ve been working our arses off for weeks, oh fearless leader,” says Grantaire, who’s probably already had too much, not that he cares. “One night off will neither kill you, nor cause the apocalypse.”

Enjolras glares at him. “You may not care about this cause - ”

“The cause can wait. Come with us. It might get that stick out of your arse.”

“I do not have a stick in my arse! I care about the people we’re trying to save. Which, Grantaire, in case you haven’t noticed, include everyone in this room!”

“Who are all going to the pub. You can’t win this one Apollo.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Oh, what would you prefer? Adonis? The Statue? Enjy?”

Combeferre snorts. Enjolras clenches his jaw. “Fine. But I’m not dragging anyone home because they overdid it. And expect no hangover sympathy.”

“We won’t,” says Bossuet cheerfully, leading the way out of the door.

***

This is one hangover Grantaire does not regret.

 It doesn’t hurt any less, but he chalks the previous night up to a roaring success. Even steady Combeferre had loosened up after a few pints.  Some genius behind the bar had rolled out a karaoke machine and Jehan had jumped up there, strutting his stuff. Unexpectedly, Bahorel had joined him. He, unlike Jehan, could really sing.

Enjolras had sat on his barstool nursing his lemonade and looking pained. Grantaire recalls collapsing next to him, joking again about marble. Enjolras had merely given him a Look. He had returned with a shit-eating grin. He’s not intimidated by him.

Enjolras feels too familiar for that.

***

Not even the alcohol can keep the dreams away.

The same scene, his own death re-enacted, over and over again. Grantaire is half tempted to ask one of his psychology drinking buddies what they mean. In the end though, he doesn’t believe in deep meanings for dreams. They’re probably a subconscious manifestation of his own self-destructive tendencies.

He keeps telling himself that.

***

He manages to stumble through the next couple of days fairly sober, owing to a text from Courfeyrac that said _Apparently if any of us turn up to the rally high, drunk, or otherwise off our faces, we will be thrown out._ It has Enjolras written all over it.

So he works his job at the cafe on campus and limits himself to a mouthful from his hip flask at breakfast, lunch, supper and before bed.

At the last ditch meeting before the rally, Enjolras goes over the roles of each group member. Grantaire is glossed over. He expected it, and tries to pretend to himself it didn’t hurt.

So here he is, milling with the small yet sizeable crowd of students who had shown up for the demonstration. He had to hand to it Enjolras, he knew how to advertise.

The other Amis are engaged, answering questions, manning a first aid corner (Joly), and generally being useful.

Grantaire asks himself what he’s doing here. Then the reason steps out onto the makeshift platform.

Dressed in his trademark red coat (the wind was still whipping across campus), the spring sun shining on his halo of hair, Apollo incarnate steps onto his stage, and the crowd goes silent at the sight of him.

And he begins to speak.

Grantaire wouldn’t recall the speech later. He would remember only the passion that poured from his mouth in a tidal wave. He captivates his audience, and sweeps them off their feet.

He is fire. He is passion itself. Enjolras is incredible.

The cheers of assent are deafening. Grantaire is lost. He only knows he is cheering as loudly as the rest. He can’t recall what for any longer.

Grantaire is lost, and at the same time, he is found. In sudden rush he knows he will do anything for the boy – no, the man – on the raised platform before him. He gives himself – and his heart – to his Apollo.

He will only realise this later, when Enjolras steps forward in the Musain that night to thank his friends and congratulate everybody. His gaze leave out nobody, Grantaire, for once, included. Grantaire will feel a fizzing in his abdomen, not dissimilar to the collective high he had ridden earlier, and will still be sober enough to analyse it.

***

_I will love you until I die._


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius falls in love, Enjolras gives no shits about this and Eponine is better than everyone put together.

It becomes a sort of routine after this.

Grantaire goes to the meetings with Les Amis faithfully every week, and tries to keep his level of drunkenness under control. He remains silent, content to let the ideas flow around him, content to watch his god at work. Content to watch Enjolras speak.

Every now and again a particularly stupid point comes up, and Grantaire cannot remain silent. The shouting matches that their debates often descend into could have blown up most of the university if condensed into dynamite. It is wonderful.

 _Enjolras_ is wonderful. Despite their differences, the clash of idealism and cynicism, Grantaire cannot help admiring, loving, venerating the man.

He is so fucked, and he cannot bring himself to care.

If he feels like the whole thing is infused with déjà vu, he doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.

***

He makes good friends with Eponine, who starts hanging around in the background, ostensibly watching Gavroche, who has taken a shine to the young revolutionaries. Grantaire knows it’s because she has nowhere else she needs, or wants to be. Courfeyrac has known the Thénardiers since forever, apparently. Grantaire himself knows a broken home when he sees it.

Eponine is not someone you want to cross in a hurry, unless your name is Marius Pontmercy. She and Grantaire take to washing the pain of unrequited love out of their eyes together.

“He’s…I don’t know. I knew it was him. I’ve seen him in dreams. More like half-remembered memories. He was something of a rock when things got tough. Seeing him used to be the reason I slept at night.” Ponine’s words are slightly slurred, her head buried in the couch pillows by Grantaire’s thigh. He reaches down and ruffles her hair. She hisses like an angry cat. “And then I find out he’s real, and still not in love with me, only wants to talk about this blonde bitch, whoever she turns out to be…at least yours pays you attention.”

Grantaire snorts. Of course Eponine has noticed. Members of the heartache club are well known to one another. “Only to have an argument. Only to ask me how much I’ve had. Not like it’s going anywhere, same as you and your Pontmercy.”

“I’ve seen your artwork, Taire. I listen to what your friends say. He’s been good for you.”

***

He can’t deny that.

Grantaire sometimes wonders if he loves the man, or the way he has made his spark has come back. His room has started filling up with supplies again. His fingers seem perpetually smudged with charcoal or pencil. He had red paint ingrained under one of his thumbnails, from a painting he had started a few days ago. Enjolras at the protest, standing atop his platform, surrounded by a red and gold haze. He won’t pick it out. He feels like he may actually finish something for once. His tutors are just pleased he has started handing in work again, no matter how dissatisfied he may be with it.

Granted, he still has no idea about his extra credit.

He trawls Google images, but nothing jumps out at him. He can’t even decide what period of history to go for.

He bemoans this to Jehan, Courf, Joly and Bossuet, when they are gathered at his and Jehan’s apartment for a musicals marathon.

“Lottery,” says Courfeyrac.

“Close your eyes and point,” suggests Joly.

“No…nice idea though.” Grantaire took a swig from his beer. “I need something I want to draw, but in moderation. This is something I actually have to finish.”

Courfeyrac, more than familiar with the way Grantaire’s inspiration runs away with him, pats him on the head. “You’ll know it when you find it. Like the One.”

“Easy for you to say.” Grantaire looks pointedly at Jehan, legs up over the arm of the couch, head in Courfeyrac’s lap.

“Ok, fair enough, but the point still stands. Don’t give up.”

If Grantaire had a euro for every time he’s been told that he’d never have to worry about his student loans again. But he doesn’t say this, simply lounges back into the cushions and turns his attention back to Phantom of the Opera.

He’s well aware that the deadline for his extra credit is looming, but still no period of history appeals to him. World War One is overdone and the ancient Greeks just make him think of Enjolras, which doesn’t help.

He think it’s unlucky he’s not been given mythology. He’d have been done twice over by now, not that anything would be finished. But at least he would have _ideas._

He is uncharacteristically quiet in the Musain the next Tuesday, sat in the midst of the chatter, nursing his drink, thoughts far afield. He is only brought back from his musings when Bahorel bangs in loudly with a rambling Marius and a cry of, “Will somebody please shut him up!”

Marius blushes, but doesn’t stop rambling. “She’s real, oh my god she’s really real and she’s perfect, and beautiful and I think I’m in love…”

“Marius,” says Joly, with the endless patience of the medical student, “will you please take a deep breath and, when you can talk normally again, tell us who the hell you’re on about.”

“She’s…” Marius seems to be having trouble breathing. Grantaire stands and guides him into a chair at his table, with Feuilly, Jehan, and Combeferre. Enjolras stands to one side, watching proceedings with a neutral expression. Bossuet plonks a beer down in front of him. Uncharacteristically Marius chugs it straight down.

“I was coming out of a lecture and she was just there, walking across the road. The blonde girl. The one I’ve been dreaming about.”

The room goes silent.

“She had her hair loose, and she just looked straight at me and, Christ guys, it was really her, I knew it. I felt it. She the One.”

“Oh fuck me, not another one,” Feuilly mutters. The others ignore him. Grantaire can practically see the sonnet forming in Jehan’s head.

“So, hold on. Did you actually talk to her, or did you just look at her?” Bahorel asks.

“I, um…” Marius looks sheepish. Feuilly groans. “I was going to! I wanted to go after her but I kind of…bottled out.”

“Really, Marius?”

“Well I’m sorry, but would you walk up to somebody and say, ‘Hi, I think I’ve been dreaming about you, let’s get coffee?’”

“He has a point,” says Courfeyrac.

“Does she have a name?” asks Jehan.

But it’s not Marius that answers.

“Cosette,” says Eponine quietly.

Marius’ head whips around. “You know her?”

“I have an idea who you’re talking about. She’s Professor Valjean’s adopted daughter. She was also fostered with my parents for a while.”

The whole group winces.

“Can you find her for me?” The hope on Marius’ face is painful.

Grantaire winces again, internally.

Eponine’s face does not change. “Of course.” She meets his eyes bravely.

“As romantic as this is,” Enjolras interjects, “Can we please get back to the task in hand. We are gaining traction across the city, we cannot afford to get sidetracked now.”

“Yes I know.” Marius stands up. “But I can’t miss this chance. I’ve been dreaming about her. That has to mean something.”

“Does it matter? She’ll still be there once we’ve won. This is our chance. Don’t muck it up by distracting everyone with your rom-com exploits.”

“You know what a rom-com is?” Grantaire says cheekily. Enjolras glares at him. Joly sniggers.

“That isn’t the point. We can’t miss this chance.”

Eponine takes advantage of the distraction to duck out of the door. Grantaire follows her.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

She looks back at him. Her face is brave but her eyes are screaming.

“I will be,” she says. “I’ve got to be.” And she turns and hurries away. Grantaire think it’s best if he doesn’t follow.

***

He returns to the main room, where Enjolras is still talking.

“…could really make a difference. We are a society for change, and now that change is within reach. We cannot, will not stop now. The revolution is here. I, for one, intend to be a part of it. What about the rest of you.” His gaze challenges every member in the room.

“You know we’re all behind you, Enjolras,” says Bossuet. One by one the whole group nods their assent.

Enjolras turns to Grantaire. “And? Are you with us?”

“Of course.”

Enjolras looks disbelieving. “You don’t believe in our cause.”

“But I believe in you.” And there _zings_ that something again.

The blonde blinks.

“Whether or not I think it’s bullshit is irrelevant. You’re my friends, I hope. I stand by my friends.”

Joly whoops and claps him on the back. Grantaire chokes and Les Amis la­­ugh.

When he meets Enjolras’ eyes again, the young man is half smiling.

_Ah, victory, how sweet you taste._

 

Also, he has a topic for his extra credit.

_Revolution._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slightly in love with Eponine, not gonna lie.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras gets pissy with Grantaire's attitude, Combeferre tries to be the voice of reason (he fails) and Grantaire has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where those violence and shameless book/film canon mixing warnings come into play.

The traction Enjolras was talking about is apparent throughout the city. Sit ins. More public protests. Grantaire can taste the revolution coming, his Apollo at its head. It frightens him, for reasons he doesn’t want to think about.

His dreams continue. Again, and again, and again, his friends live and fight and die, in appalling waistcoats that he would give anything to see free of dust and gunpowder and blood.

And Enjolras… _Enjolras…_

Recurring dreams have never been this bad.

***

Grantaire recalls having recurring dreams about fish when he was younger for no apparent reason, and he’s no stranger to the weird and wonderful dreams that alcohol can induce, but they’re never like this. They don’t carry the same hopelessness.

And with Enjolras and Les Amis running the next big protest, Grantaire has serious misgivings. He’s not quiet about them either.

“Sure you’re not getting in over your heads?” he says one day, a week or so before the main event.

“This is hardly the first time this group has organised something on this scale, Grantaire,” says Enjolras with forced patience. “We know what we’re doing.”

Grantaire really should leave it at that, but the dream was particularly vicious last night and he’s had more than usual for these meetings.

“And the riot police? Pretty sure they’re experienced too, and have less issues with throwing punches.”

“Calm down, Grantaire. Enjolras is right, this is not our first time.” Combeferre is trying to be his usual level headed, reassuring self. _It hadn’t stopped him being gunned down by an invisible firing squad._

So all it serves to do is increase Grantaire’s misgivings.

“And how, if this does go south, do you expect to make a difference from a hospital bed?”

Enjolras turns on him, patience exhausted. “How much have you had?”

He chuckles darkly. “What is it to Apollo how much Dionysus has consumed?”

“How. Much. Have. You. Had?”

There is no escaping him. “A bottle…maybe two? Fuck it, I can’t remember.”

“Then go and remember somewhere else. Stop distracting us.”

A flash of hurt pieces Grantaire. “Throwing me out?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

The whole room has gone quiet, watching the dichotomous young men in the centre. The light blazing and the dark simply waiting.

“Enjolras…” begins Combeferre quietly.

“No, no, ‘ferre,” says Grantaire. “It’s fine. I have…things to finish anyway.”

Courfeyrac catches him near the door. “R, this is the drunkest I’ve seen you in weeks. You ok?”

“Fine, Courf!” Grantaire claps him on the shoulder and breezes unsteadily out of the room. “Fucking marvellous…”

***

He really does have something to finish.

Bottles line the surfaces. History books are scattered about him.

These history books are open to the French Revolution, the Restoration, and the smaller uprisings that came later. There are several splatters of paint on their leaves. Grantaire doesn’t care.

He isn’t aware if dawn has broken yet, behind his curtains. All he knows is the paint going onto canvas.

The research for this had taken up the bulk of his weekend. It is the first time Grantaire has set foot in the university library in the two years he’s been there. He prefers buying his books second hand and scribbling in the margins. He knows the story of the French Revolution (he paid attention in school for a while), but something about these doomed young revolutionaries has captured him in a way the guillotinings never had.

And the picture had taken shape in his mind.

Now that picture is taking shape before him. A man stands atop a pile of furniture. Other figures climb up behind him. The sun rises behind him, but the buildings at the edge are the blacker for being in shadow. The man himself is indistinct though a haze, though whether it is musket smoke or the dawn behind him, Grantaire cannot tell. But he is red, and gold, Apollo become Ares. He is holding a red flag. It’s full of holes but it’s still flying.

As Grantaire paints, he is aware of a certainty rising within him. His dreams have returned, but this time, they play out before his eyes.

_Enjolras speaks in the Café Musain. He quotes Robespierre and talks of a need for change. Jehan writes verse for the others on Feuilly’s fans. Marius rants about Napoleon and Waterloo. Bahorel boasts of his latest victory. Eponine slinks in and out. Courfeyrac laughs. Joly checks his tongue in the mirror and tries to stop Bossuet from breaking it. He himself sits in the corner and debates with whoever is closest about whatever they are speaking of. They are together. They support each other home. They take walks together through the streets. They are family._

_It is little different from how they are today. Enjolras included._

_“Grantaire, do you want to do me a service?”_

_“Anything. I’ll black your boots.”_

_“Stick to your absinthe. Keep out of our affairs. You don’t believe in anything.”_

_“I believe in you.”_

_He shuns him, mocks him, and Grantaire loves him nonetheless. He thinks he cannot do anything else. With Les Amis, he is happy. At the side of Enjolras, he is complete._

_They stand in a crowd as the funeral procession walk by. General Lamarque, the voice for the people, is dead. They are here to mourn him in their own way. Of course, Enjolras takes the lead, waving the bloody great flag Madame Hucheloup had stitched him out of her curtains. The rest follow, swarming over the hearse and the soldiers like ants. Grantaire swings up next to the driver. He is largely unnoticed by most of Les Amis, despite the bright red cap. They rarely see him in anything other than his usual darker hues. The singing is infectious…and then the gunshots begin to crack._

_The cry goes up, Enjolras’ voice ripping beautifully into the air. Above the chaos he soars._

_“TO THE BARRICADES!”_

_He slinks away then, avoids the fighting by taking the back streets. He is not a coward, but he does not think anyone will want him where the action is._

_He sits at a table by a half-abandoned wine bottle. A barmaid comes over, sits on his lap, and asks what is wrong. He cannot tell her, just looks at her and wishes she was somebody else. Then Marius bursts in, tells him to “get off your arse, it’s begun!” And after that it’s just furniture. Piles and piles, and piles._

Grantaire’s vision blurs as he shades in the barricade. The certainty does not lessen. Nor do the visions stop.

_“Go and sleep off your wine somewhere else. Do not dishonour this barricade.”_

_“I believe in you, you know.”_

_Here they were, the revolution had started, and Enjolras still could not give Grantaire anything more than a disdainful glance. “You’re incapable of believing, thinking, willing, living, or dying.”_

_“You will see.”_

The tattered flag is coloured in a bold, blood red.

_Eponine is the first to fall. She bleeds out in Marius’ arms. Grantaire supposes, in a twisted way, she got her happy ending. Bahorel has also fallen. This shocks Grantaire more. Bahorel is - was - one of those people one could imagine being hit by a block of stone and coming away relatively unhurt. But there he is, lying on the cold, wet cobblestones._

_Jehan is gunned down outside the barricade. One shot is all it takes to fell the gentle soul. The same cannot be said of Gavroche. It requires two or three to kill him. Courfeyrac cradles his body and sobs. By this point Grantaire has passed out._

_He wakes to silence. The first thing he sees in Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac, lying in a heap where they died. But even this horror is eclipsed by what he sees by the window._

_Enjolras stands there, with at least twelve guns trained on him. Cornered, as he faces his death._

_Grantaire has never sobered up so quickly. He sees, in an instant, a life without his god, his love, his Enjolras. A life without the sun._

_He may as well be dead._

_“Vive la Republique!” he cries. The soldiers give a start, but he pays then no mind. “Vive la Republique! J’en suis!”_

_He crosses the room to stand at Enjolras’ side and addresses the National Guard. “Finish us both at one blow.” And turning to Enjolras, “Do you permit it?”_

_Even at the end, he fears only rejection._

_And then something wonderful happens. Enjolras takes his hand. His fingers are warm and strong and smooth around Grantaire’s. He smiles, and the sun rises into Grantaire’s life just as the report sounds._

His paintbrush falls to the carpet. He staggers backwards. Trips over the edge of the bed and falls flat onto his mattress. He is gasping for breath. There is wetness on his cheeks.

So it’s all true. It’s a memory, that’s why it’s so vivid.

His scepticism tries its utmost to assert itself, tell him it’s nonsense, that that sort of thing simply does not exist. But he cannot ignore the signs. Knowing Enjolras’ name before he had been told it, and vice versa. The dreams, shared by the group ( _“We have become a true hive mind.” “She’s real, oh my god, she’s really real…”_ )

Grantaire looks up for the first time at his artwork.

It’s finished. He had put the final touches to it while being bombarded with his own death scene. It doesn’t quite sink it at first, and then he realises – it’s finished. It’s finished. And it’s perfect. Enjolras stands victorious, as he never had in life.

It’s too much for Grantaire and the tears start flowing freely, but not because Enjolras had died. They had died together, hands clasped and Grantaire was selfishly happy with that.

No, because Enjolras had disdained him in their previous life, as he disdained him now. He is right. People never change. He is still a drunkard, and Enjolras is still 20,000 leagues out of his.

And he obviously did not recall a thing. As Marius would never be Eponine’s, Enjolras would never be his.

Jehan is with Courfeyrac. Grantaire weeps by himself. 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire freaks out, Jehan faints, and Courfeyrac panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boatloads of angst again, but I reckon that's kind of a given in this fandom. Actually, just assume angst for the next three chapters. Enjoy xx

He puts the painting away carefully, and drowns himself in vodka for the rest of the night. He spends two days in bed trying to come to terms with it. He ignores his phone. He closes his curtains and buries his head beneath the pillow.

_Reincarnation. Merde. Merde merde merde._

In the end his stomach forces him out. With a splitting head he stumbles into the kitchen to find water and painkillers laid out, and a note in Jehan’s neat script to say that he would be back around six-ish.

It’s their routine when Grantaire has been on a bender. They’ve been flat-sharing all of three months.

A sudden rage grips him at the sight of them. He sweeps the glass off the table. It shatters on the floor into a thousand sunbeams, that reflect off the shattered window panes on a very different floor, one probably long gone. He puts his head in his hands and chokes down a sob.

_Once a drunkard, always a drunkard. You were useless to them then and you are useless to them now. You are worth nothing to Enjolras and he despises you._

_Useless, useless, weak and small and useless._

Grantaire glances up at the clock. It’s almost four in the afternoon and he suddenly knows he cannot be here when Jehan gets back. He cannot face the others. Cannot bear the eternal disappointment in Enjolras’ eyes.

He thinks of the little holiday cottage on the north coast, empty at this time of year, before his parents move in for the summer.

He makes one of his infamous split second decisions. Infamous, in that they are always spectacularly stupid ideas.

As he dives back into his room he catches sight of his extra credit painting. The deadline for it is only a week away.

He doesn’t want to fuck this up. Though it would be just like him, the constant fuckup. For a minute he considers leaving it, burning it.

But he cannot.

***

So he packs a bag with a few essentials, changes of clothes, a toothbrush. Pencils and sketchbook he could no more leave behind than he could cut off his own foot. His wallet and keys. His laptop. His phone he leaves.

He thinks of leaving a note for Jehan, telling him of his plan. But he also thinks he may not return. The last thing he wants to do is break a gentle soul with false hope. Or give them cause to follow him. So in the end he simply leave a short note on the counter. _I need space. Don’t worry about me._

The last thing he does is take his large canvas, over half a metre wide, and wrap it in the brown paper he’d bought for the purpose. He slings the backpack onto his back and tucks his painting carefully beneath his arm. Then he leaves the flat.

***

He leaves the painting in the art department with his tutors name on it. He takes the Métro to the Gard du Nord and catches a train. Soon he is speeding north. The day has overcast and light rain smears the windows. Or maybe it’s the water falling from his own eyes that blurs his vision.

 _It’s better this way,_ he tells himself, and he believes it, which is small comfort. His heart burns when he thinks of his friends. Sweet Jehan, vibrant Courfeyrac, cheerful Joly and Bossuet, steady Combeferre, beautiful Eponine. Enjolras. He will never gaze upon his god again. He will be glad of his absence. _It’s better this way_ , he tells himself again. _It’s better for him._

_It’s better for me._

_It’s better this way._

_Oh God I can’t help but love them. Love him. It will destroy them._

He closes his eyes as the train races north.

***

When Jehan finds the note, he is not worried. It’s not the first time in their friendship that Grantaire has disappeared for a day or two. But when he sees the smashed glass on the floor, gleaming dully on the linoleum in the grey light from the window, he begins to suspect this time is different.

He dials Grantaire’s phone, and when he hears the synthesised tones of Fun. echo from Grantaire’s bedroom, he knows this time is definitely different.

“ _Merde_ ,” he muttered, and dialled Courfeyrac.

“Missing me already sweetie?” he answers.

“Shut up Courf. Have you heard from R?”

Courfeyrac’s tone instantly becomes serious. “No, not for a couple of days, since he and Enjolras had that fight. Why?”

“He’s done a vanishing act, but it’s not like his usual ones. He’s left his phone behind and there’s broken glass all over the floor.”

“Shit. Ok, I’ll call around some of his usual bars, see if he’s shown up. You call around the others.”

“Christ, Courf, what if something’s…”

“Shhhh. Jehan, baby, it’s going to be okay. He’ll turn up, he always does.”

Courfeyrac’s words are much appreciated, though they do little to soothe Jehan’s fraying nerves. He hangs up and goes into Grantaire’s room.

He had worried a little when Grantaire had shut himself in his room for four days straight, emerging once or twice for more alcohol or a bite to eat. He hadn’t said anything though. This Grantaire was wild. Jehan was frightened of his reaction. He had seen him explode before.

Now he looks around at the wreckage of two and a half days desperate creativity. Empty glass bottles line the top of the chest of drawers. There are more rolling on the floor by an abandoned paintbrush. The painting itself is nowhere to be seen. Paint splatters the carpet, the unmade bed. It also splatters the pages of the books scattered about the room.

Jehan picks a few of them up. The period following the French Revolution. The July Revolution. The June Rebellion. Small uprisings he’s never heard of and that seem so familiar. Images on the pages he recognises from his dreams.

_His dreams…_

The recollections hit him in a rush, with such force that he collapses on the spot.

***

He awakes to Courfeyrac about an hour later, shaking him, pleading with him. “Jehan?! Jehan, _cher,_ come back to me, please…”

“Courf…?”

“Oh, thank fuck.” He is cradled in his boyfriend’s arms. He blinks. He is alive.

_Jehan has many fond memories of those days, before and during when the heat of revolution quickened their blood. He remembers arguing Greek mythology in the Café Musain, and drinks shared with Grantaire, and Courfeyrac, and Marius, in backstreet public houses. He remembers Enjolras lighting the flame within them, and inspiring them to pass that flame on to others. He went to the stone-masons, a rather rough and ready bunch, but receptive enough._

_And the barricade, the rush, the fever of the build. The natural, beautiful underlying camaraderie._

_The barricade is under siege. Jehan has words for everything, but there are no words for this. His fires his musket into the fray wildly, not knowing if his aim is true. It is a melee, he and his friends, his Amis…_

_He is near the top of the barricade when they seize him. They drag him away. In the chaos, nobody notices. When the fighting stops they shove him against the wall. He does not go quietly._

_“Vive la France!” he yells at his firing squad. “Vive l’avenir!”_

_They open fire._

***

“Jehan? _Mon cher_?”

“I remember…” he hears himself murmur. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“What wasn’t a dream?”

“The barricade…Les Amis, the revolution, it all really happened…” The room comes slowly into alignment. He is lying on Grantaire’s bed. Courfeyrac kneels above him.

“What?”

The Jehan remembers this morning. “Fuck…have you found Grantaire?”

“No, and nor has anyone else. Just lie still. I found you flat out on the floor, you might have hit your head.”

Jehan can’t help grinning. “You sound like Joly.”

“Good. I called the others after I found you, they’re on their way.” A sharp rap resounds from the front door. “That’ll be them now. Stay there, yes?”

He plants a kiss on Jehan’s forehead and goes to answer the door.

Jehan hears the sound of his friends voices in the hallway. He sits up slowly, his head spinning. Past lives. Reincarnated, with all his friends.

It’s enough to make anyone think they are going mad.

After a few minutes his head has straightened out enough to rise from the bed and join his friends in the sitting room. Bar Grantaire, they’re all there. Even Eponine, seated on the arm of one of the couches.

It strikes him how lucky he is. They fought and died as brothers and now have the chance to live again.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Les Amis have a chat, Feuilly is cynical, and Enjolras won't admit how worried his is about R.

Enjolras will not admit to himself or anyone else that he is worried.

It’s not even like he knows Grantaire that well. He knows his views, his opinions, especially when they are attacking his own. But of the man…he knows next to nothing.

And yet, he is worried. Jehan has told them of coming home to find the note and the broken glass. He has told them of his visions. The books are spread in front of them.  Slowly, Les Amis had pieced the story together. Not even Bahorel had laughed.

“But how come the rest of us remember nothing about it?” asks Bossuet. He’s looking pale. Joly has taken his hand.

“What the hell makes you think anyone knows why?” asks Feuilly. “This isn’t like forgetting an appointment. This is - _sacré bleu_ , am I seriously about to say this – past life regression. Maybe we should all go see shrinks.”

Even Enjolras, the believer, finds the very idea odd. But it rings true. How else could he have recognised Grantaire the first second he saw him. How else could Les Amis have gelled so quickly, and be stronger than it has been in years? Coincidence?

Enjolras doesn’t believe in coincidence.

“Maybe we should focus on finding Grantaire,” says Combeferre. Jehan nods enthusiastically.

“I called around his usual hole-ups. Nobody’s seen him,” says Courfeyrac.

“Why has the idiot run off now?” asks Bahorel. “He’s got an extra credit assignment due in a week.”

 “Working under the assumption that what Jehan experienced is real -” Courfeyrac splutters indignantly “– I know, but there’s very little documented evidence to suggest this kind of thing is true…but anyway, do you think he might have…remembered as well?” Joly asks.

The group look at one another soberly. Jehan had collapsed with the force of his memories. Who knows what might have happened to the less stable Grantaire?

Scenarios flitted across Enjolras’ brain, scenarios that did not bear thinking about.

And it was their fight that might have triggered this.

“He could turn up in a couple of days,” says Marius hopefully.

“Or he could be dead in a ditch somewhere,” mutters Feuilly.

“Don’t say that.”

The group turned at the harshness of Enjolras’ tone.

“Don’t say that. He isn’t dead till I see his body.” Turning to Courfeyrac and Jehan, Grantaire’s oldest friends, he asks, “Is there anywhere else he might be?”

Jehan shakes his head. “Don’t know. He’s not in touch with his parents.”

“Where does he usually go?” asks Eponine.

“We’ve already tried his bolt holes. I’m not wandering around random bars, not even for his sake.”

“Bars around where?”

“Places I don’t want to take a car to,” says Courf. “Or a wallet. Or my head.”

“I can have a look if you like.”

“By yourself?” Combeferre asks.

“I grew up in the sketchiest area of Paris with the sketchiest parents on the planet. I know my way around. What’s more, they know me.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” muses Bahorel. “I’ll go with you, if you like.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

“Think of it more as hired muscle.”

Eponine nods. If Grantaire is there he will need both of them to cart him home.

“Is it worth trying to call his family?” asks Marius.

“I don’t even think Grantaire has their numbers, let alone any of us.”

“He has a sister, doesn’t he?”

“In Marseilles,” Jehan agrees. “I suppose we could try her. Not sure if they’re still in contact or not.”

“Find out,” says Enjolras. “I’ll drop by the art department in the morning, ask around. Combeferre, coming?”

He nods.

“What about the rest of us?” asks Feuilly.

“Keep an eye on your phones. Maybe check train stations, bus stations. Ask around, somebody must have seen him.”

They all nod their agreement. Enjolras feels a small flush of pride run through him, at having such loyal and committed friends.

_Lieutenants. That was the word he always used._

He shook his head to clear it.

***

They met with Grantaire’s tutor, a middle-aged man with charcoal under his nails.

“He called in yesterday to drop off his extra credit work. I’ve not seen him personally in weeks.”

Combeferre may be questioning him more, but Enjolras has stopped listening. He’s staring at the painting leant on the easel in one corner. A barricade, rising to the sky, and atop it, emerging from the smoke, a man waving a tattered red flag. It doesn’t take a genius to see the resemblance between the leader and Enjolras. This then, is Grantaire’s art.

The tutor notices his interest. “Yes, that’s the piece there. Striking, isn’t it? Emulating the revolution of 1848, I believe.”

Enjolras knows he is wrong. That is him, and he has seen that scene from the other side. _A barricade, built in the narrow, cobbled backstreets of Paris in front of another Café Musain._ The picture is so clear, he once again has to shake his head to clear it.

“Well, thank you Monsieur,” says Combeferre politely. He tugs on Enjolras’ arm. “Come on.”

“Do let me know if you hear anything. He’s talented, that boy. I didn’t think we’d ever see any work from him and then suddenly, he begins producing like I’ve never seen him before. Almost never left here.”

“When was this?”

“Oh…couple of months ago?”

The same time Grantaire began coming to Les Amis.

_“I believe in you, you know.”_

_What is going on?_

***

He had little time to dwell. Outside, Courfeyrac calls Enjolras.

“So, I found his sister’s number.”

Enjolras puts him on speaker. Combeferre crowds in to listen.

“Turns out she’s not heard from him in a while. But, she put us onto something that might help. Their parents have a summer cottage in the north they go to, have done for years. She suggested he might go there. His mum and dad won’t be there for months. Sound like Grantaire to you?”

“Where is it?”

“Normandy, on the coast. Bit remote.”

“Have you got a number for it?” asks Combeferre.

“Pass. Someone should really go up there.”

Combeferre looks at Enjolras. “I can go. Or Jehan and Courf, or Bahorel, they know him the best.”

Enjolras already knows his answer.

“No, it should be me. This is my fault.”

“It’s really not, you know,” says Courfeyrac’s tinny voice.

“Even so, I want to.”

“You barely like the guy.”

Enjolras gives him a look. He can hardly tell Combeferre or Courfeyrac that ever since Grantaire crashed into him that day two months ago the man, his polar opposite, has been in his dreams and on his mind. He feels responsible.

Courf knows when they are beaten. He rattles off where this cottage is. “I’ll call the others. Take care, won’t you ‘Jolras?”

“Of course.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras has his revelation on a train, finds out he can't read a map, and Grantaire gets his second fright in as many days.

One Métro ride later, Enjolras is sat by himself on a train, speeding north with an address in his pocket and a spinning head.

He’s allowing the full force of their earlier conversation to hit him.

 _Reincarnation_. It’s the stuff of New Age shops and Eastern religions, not student apartments in the middle of Paris. He thinks of his strange, intense dreams, of barricades and blood and camaraderie and impassioned speeches atop steps and tables and literal soapboxes. Not dreams but memories? Is that even possible?

If Grantaire’s memories tally with Jehan’s, it’s safe to say yes.

***

Of course, he has to find him first.

The minutes pass. The train’s wheels clatter over the track.

It sounds like gunfire.

_The cracks of muskets echo through the massive square._

_“TO THE BARRICADES!” His voice carries over the chaos. Guns are going off, carts are being overturned. The National Guard are retreating._

_They race to the Musain. It’s the perfect place for a barricade, at the end of a long, narrow street._

_“We need as much furniture as you can throw down!” yells Courfeyrac. And it comes, tipping out of windows and out of doors. His blood is fire in his veins._

_He catches Marius at the upper window of the café, and shares a delirious smile with him. ‘This is really happening…’_

_Feuilly and Jehan are throwing tables and chairs onto the pile as it grows and spreads wider and wider. Combeferre is directing people. Joly is throwing wood around with – for once – little concern for splinters. Grantaire is there, dragging a table out of the café. He is surprised to see him sober enough. He cannot muster enough negativity to wish him away now. He is fond of everyone in that moment, cynical drunkards included. They push over a carriage side by side._

_And everywhere are the people of Paris, lending their support, their strength, their possessions._

Enjolras blinks several times.

_He shoots the artillery sergeant out of necessity. He has come too far to fail at the first hurdle. The revolution must not crumble into anarchy, for that route holds nothing but disaster. He says as much._

_His lieutenants support him. It gives him little comfort. He had been perfectly prepared to shed blood, but still hates himself for doing so._

_He can smell the gunpowder on his fingers. He can feel the stain on his soul._

_And the National Guard had shot sweet Jean Prouvaire._

_There was truly no turning back after this._

***

Enjolras swept tears out of his eyes. Jehan must have remembered that. The idea of anyone deliberately laying a hand on Jehan in harm made him want to punch somebody. No – kill them.

***

_“Your friends have killed you, too.”_

_But the barricade fell. One by one he sees his friends fall. Feuilly does not abandon his post until bayonetted in the back. Bossuet falls at one of the windows. With his usual bad luck, he takes a ball to the neck. He dies slowly. Of Marius and Grantaire there is no sign._

_He has led each and every one of them to their deaths._

_They shelter on the second floor – Joly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and himself. The happiest member of their group, his best friend, and the glue that held them all together are shot from below, cut down as though by an invisible scythe._

_There is only him left. The soldiers climb the stairs._

***

The clack and clank of the train does not abate for a moment. The train does not stop, though Enjolras is gasping for breath in his seat. There are emotions running through him he has not felt in years. 174, to be exact. Disappointment. Guilt. Hopelessness. Fear.

They had fought and died together, all of his friends. Now he was to die alone. He doesn’t want to see any more.

***

_“Would you like your eyes bandaged?”_

_“No.” He wants to face his death with his eyes open. He will not let them win in this sense._

_One guard puts his musket down. “It would be like shooting a flower,” he says. The others have no such scruples. He scans their faces. Nothing._

_“Wasn’t there one they called Apollo?” asks another. “Is this him?”_

***

Enjolras smiles involuntarily. Grantaire’s nickname for him. Hearing it in this context it almost seems cute, coming from him. He’ll never laugh at it again.

 _Grantaire._ Where is Grantaire? Was he spared? He recalls telling him to go away and sleep off his wine. Is he still there, or have the Guards shot him in his sleep?

***

_His past self does not think of this. He thinks of his other friends, assumes they are all dead. Waits only now to join them…_

_“Vive la Republique!”_

_The cry comes from the corner of the room, from behind the billiards table. It is Grantaire. No wine rests in his eyes as he pushes across the room._

_“Vive la Republique! J’en suis!”_

_Enjolras can’t believe it, wants to yell at him to save himself, wants to know what he is doing. But then he realises something. Grantaire does not want to save himself._

_He shoves through the National Guard and comes to stand at Enjolras’ side. “Finish us both at one blow,” he instructs them. And turning to Enjolras he asks, almost nervously, “Do you permit it?”_

_Enjolras curses irony and inevitability, because he has one final epiphany, of how wrong he had been about Grantaire. He had believed in something. He had loved something enough to die for it. Not Enjolras’ cause, but Enjolras himself._

_He wishes to turn back time, for another chance, but there are no more chances. Just one thing he can do._

_He takes his hand and smiles. A smile of benediction and forgiveness._

_The report sounds, and there is no more._

Enjolras comes back to himself to find wetness on his cheeks and resolve settled firmly in his heart. This is his second chance.

***

He steps off the bus and checks the map he’d picked up at the tourist information office at the train station.

Of course the first step is to find a street name. Harder than it looks, even in a tiny village. Also he can’t tell whether or not his map is upside down.

Enjolras picks the direction that looks most likely and follows it.

An hour later, he is certain the map was upside down.

Evening is closing in, the light fading. He can name at least ten more worthwhile things he could be doing with his time. For once, the cause is not at the top. Talking to Grantaire is.

At least he’s on the right road now. The countryside stretches out on either side of him as he walks. The evening is warm, but the road is shaded. His feet are becoming sore and he regrets not stopping off at his apartment on the way to the station and picking up some studier shoes than his red Converse. They were never designed for long distance hiking.

And suddenly, too soon and not soon enough, the turning is there. The name is _La Belle Vue._ Enjolras snorts. Unimginative.

A long drive, open to the setting sun, leads to the medium sized house. It tries to look rustic and old, built in pale Caen stone with a slate roof and ivy artfully crawling up the walls, but is so obviously recently built it’s painful. Enjolras knows very little about Grantaire’s family, only what Courfeyrac has told him - that he fell out with them in much the way he did with his parents. He wanted to study art rather than law, with the result that they’d cut him off completely. They must have had a bit of money at least, to afford something like this.

Enjolras steps up to the door and knocks, hoping that Grantaire isn’t too drunk, or has not already gone to bed.

A few minutes and several more knocks later, he is rewarded with shuffling footsteps and the door pulling open a crack.

***

Grantaire looks like hell and smells like whiskey, but he seems to sober up instantly when he sees Enjolras standing in the doorway.

Enjolras no longer sees the cynical drunk who has been an unwelcome thorn in his side for over two months. Instead he sees the bravest person he’s ever known. ‘Do you permit it?’ still rings in his ears.

They simply stare at one another for a few minutes.

Enjolras, who can set a city on fire with his words, is lost for them. It is Grantaire who breaks the silence.

“What the fuck are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Courfeyrac called your sister. She told us.”

Grantaire swears.

“We were worried. Jehan found the note, but you never cleaned up the broken glass.”

“Damn. And he used that as warning signal.” He sighs, and runs his fingers through messy black curls. “Jesus, I can’t even disappear right…”

“Yeah, about that…Grantaire, we need to talk.”

“Oh, we do, do we?” Grantaire crosses his arms. “What if I don’t want to talk?”

“I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything.”

“No, Apollo, you don’t get to turn up at whatever o’clock it is with cryptic answers after throwing me out of your meeting for voicing legitimate concerns. Spit it out or fuck off, I said I needed space for a reason. Space, in particular, from you.”

“Do you permit it?”

All the colour drains from the other man’s face. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short filler chapter featuring the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC, in which some things are theorised and...not a lot else.

“I still think we’re all headed for the loony bin,” Feuilly mutters. “I have exams to be working for.”

Enjolras has left for Grantaire’s parent’s summer house. The rest have returned to Combeferre’s apartment to chew things over.

“We need to know what, if anything, Grantaire remembers,” says Combeferre. “If it tally’s with Jehan’s, we’ll know.”

“How scientific,” remarks Bahorel, sprawled in an armchair, resting his feet on Feuilly’s shoulder where he’s seated on the footstool. Surprisingly, the fiery art student is letting him.

“Any better suggestions?”

Nobody responds. Jehan still look rather shell-shocked, lying on the floor with his head in Courfeyrac’s lap. Marius is texting Cosette; as promised, Eponine had approached her and dragged her and Marius out to coffee. As predicted, they had gelled instantly. 

Eponine herself is curled on the couch beside Combeferre, chewing her nails thoughtfully. Combeferre wonders if she was there with them. He assumes so from the way she interacts with Marius, but aside from that she contributes less to the group than Grantaire on a bad day.

Bossuet sits at Joly’s feet by the other couch. He’s massaging his temples.

Joly is flipping through some of the books he’d brought from Grantaire and Jehan’s flat, brow furrowed, sometimes skipping back to read things again.

“It’s irritating,” he says. “It’s like, I _know this_ already, but at the same time I don’t…

“Are you sure you’ve not just read it before?” Feuilly asks.

“Certain,” replies Joly icily.

Combeferre understands Feuilly’s scepticism. He’s a child of the foster care system who learnt a long time ago to live in the real world.

Bossuet gets up and wanders into the bathroom to look for some aspirin. A minute later half the bottles fall off the shelves, accompanied by muffled cursewords. Despite the situation, Bahorel chuckles.

“Some things will never change,” he says. Even Joly smiles.

They wait for Bossuet to emerge. He doesn’t.

***

Joly dives into the bathroom, closely followed by half Les Amis. Bossuet is curled between the toilet and the towel rack.

“The barricades,” he murmurs.

The whole bathroom goes silent. Bossuet doesn’t seem to be aware of his audience.

“…we’re gonna die, we’re all gonna fucking die, there’s no ammunition left, why does it have to rain, just my goddamn luck…”

Joly crouches next to his best friend. “Easy. Boss, can you hear me? It’s ok. It’s long gone. Boss, open your eyes for me, please…please?” He takes the other man’s hands in his.

Slowly, the unlucky bald man comes back to himself. Slowly, he picks he picks himself up. He allows himself to be led back into the sitting room.  He collapses onto the couch and buries his head into the cushions.

“Holy shit,” he can’t stop whispering.

Jehan places his hand on his back.

“We knew what we were signing up for,” he whispers. “We believed in what we did.”

The whole room waits as if on a knife edge.

“Jehan…” Bossuet’s voice cracks. “If this is real…tell me something only we would know.”

“We all turned up in each other’s dreams,” says Feuilly. Bahorel silences him with a smack to the back of the head.

“General Lamarque’s funeral. You marched with me alongside the hearse. Enjolras was standing on the top with that ridiculous red flag of his. The National Guard shot an old woman.”

Bossuet nods. His usual jovial face is pasty white. “That was when the fighting started,” he says. “Two of you shot the guardsman that did it. We overturned a cart, used it as cover. Then we went back to the Musain.”

“And built the barricade out of the furniture the people threw out of their homes,” Jehan finishes.

“I heard you get shot. They captured you on the first assault. You yelled, ‘ _Vive l’avenir!’_ ”

Jehan closes his eyes. “He’s right.”

Marius, for once, breaks the heavy silence.

“Holy shit.”

***

Courfeyrac crouches by Jehan and Bossuet on the couch, one steadying hand on Jehan’s back and one on Bossuet’s arm. He’s shaking.

“What’s the date?”

Everyone looks confused. “Boss, what…?” Joly begins.

 _“The fucking date!_ Joly, what’s the date? _”_

“It’s June 7th.”

“June 7th…oh _shit._ ” Combeferre dived for one of the books on the table.

“The June Rebellion…was finally crushed on the 7th of June after two days of fighting.”

The time, nobody breaks the silence.

“All of us?” asks Bahorel.

“Most likely,” replies Combeferre.

“When?”

“Couldn’t say. I think we’d all better stay here for tonight at the least.”

Nobody argues. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire and Enjolras talk for the first time ever, coffee is drunk and hand-holding happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this.

Grantaire makes coffee, and refrains from adding alcohol to his out of respect for Enjolras. ­­­­The blonde youth is seated on the plump couch doing his level best not to look too panicked. Grantaire appreciated it – he’s one step away from a freakout himself. Someone needed to be the strong one.

He pulls some of the blankets off the nest he’s made himself on one sofa and drapes them over the back of the other couch. He sits beside Enjolras and thinks frantically, _How the hell do I start?_

This is the man he died next to. In 1832.

Enjolras fortunately takes the decision out of his hands.

“I was going to come up here to make you see reason. Never thought I’d be having a conversation about past lives.”

“I’m sorry if I freaked anyone out.”

“They’re all freaked out enough as it is. Jehan remembers too.”

“Shit. Is he ok?”

“Courfeyrac says he fainted initially, but he’s alright now. He’s with Combeferre and the others.”

“And you? When did you remember?”

“On the train coming up.”

“Convenient.”

Enjolras ignored him. “But Jehan talked to us, and I suspected. The way we all seemed to click. The way you knew who I was. Your inspiration coming back – your tutor mentioned it.”

“That had sod all to do with this.” Grantaire does not elaborate, examining the contents of his steaming coffee mug. “So we’re the only three that remember.”

“As far as I know.”

“The rest?”

“Feuilly think we’re lunatics.” Grantaire laughs at this. It breaks some of the tension. “The others…I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The room has darkened considerably. In the half light, Grantaire thinks, they could be ghosts.

Enjolras speaks first.

“That spark…you felt it too, yes?”

Grantaire knows what he means. He nods.

“I think that’s where it all started. That morning…it annoyed me for the rest of the day.”

“Sorry about that by the way. I was late.”

“I gathered. And then I walked into the Musain the next day and there you were, and I placed you. I didn’t know where at the time, I just knew that I knew you and I stopped questioning it. Chalked it up to one of those strange happenings you read about on crack sites. And that was when the dreams started making sense.” He puts his mug down, rests his curls in his hands. “And then bloody Marius started talking about this blonde girl, and Eponine, and whoever else….” He is babbling now.

“I’d found a place to call home,” Grantaire replies quietly. “I didn’t think about it at all. But I did my extra credit on revolution.”

“I saw.”

“What?”

“We went to ask your tutor if he’d heard from you. Your painting was there. You drew me on the barricades. It was beautiful.”

In the half- light it’s hard to tell, but he thinks Grantaire goes a bit pink.

“Thanks.”

 “But I thought you didn’t believe in it.”

“I don’t. But I believe in you. And you believe in the revolution. Gave me the idea.”

Enjolras looks up at him, straight in the eyes. “You said that before.”

“Said what?”

“That you believe in me.”

“I know, the other day…”

“No, _before_ before. In 1832.”

Grantaire thinks a moment. “Oh yes. I did.” He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Things really don’t change.”

“You also said you stood by your friends. Why did you drink yourself into a stupor for the final battle, then?”

And here it is. The confrontation Grantaire has been expecting. _Where were you, coward?_ He breathes out in a loud puff and looks away. “I didn’t want to watch you die, I guess.”

“But you woke up. You didn’t have to die, but you did. I did not ask it of you.”

“You wouldn’t have. But I gave it all the same.”

Enjolras grabs his shoulder, spins him back to face him. “Grantaire, you believed – still believe – in nothing, yet you chose to die at my side. Why?”

“Don’t, Enjolras.” Grantaire twists away. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow

“It was my endgame, ok? I knew it would go to shit and you’d all be shot. I made a selfish decision, because I didn’t want to face living on my own.”

“You managed for years before you met us.”

“To have you in my life, and then snuffed out of it? It would have been like giving a blind man sight just for one day. The world is all the darker knowing what you’ve lost!” His speech pattern is slipping, becoming archaic. “You, Apollo, wonderful Enjolras – you were everything good in my life. Without you I was nothing, I am nothing, and don’t tell me I’m being melodramatic because I’m not.” He is on his feet now. He cannot look at the face of the blonde man. “Without you…I may as well have died. There was no other course of action.”

There is silence.

***

The lamp is flipped on, illuminating the scruffy figure with wild curls. A rustle of cloth as Enjolras stands. A hand is placed on his shoulder. He twitches away. “Don’t…”

The hand remains where it is.

“You asked for my permission.”

“I thought you hated me.”

A warm chuckle. Light breath on the back of his neck. It takes all Grantaire’s willpower not to shiver.

“Oh, Taire. I never hated you. Disapproved of your habits and your continual sowing of discord, yes, but never hated you. Not then and not now. ”

Grantaire does turn at that. Enjolras is looking at him with nothing but honesty in his blue eyes. They are exactly the same height. His hand does not move, a warm weight on the curve of his shoulder.

“You mean that?”

“I do. I respected, and continue to respect, your intelligence despite the alcohol, your wit, the way you always have a ready answer, keep me grounded in a way Combeferre never can.”

“Combeferre -”

“Is my best friend and in charge of channelling my energy into constructive paths. You kept me realistic, though I may not have realised it. And I ‘permitted it’ because I realised far too late how you felt. And if I could give you one thing in return it would be your final wish.”

Grantaire is a little hurt, but he knows the truth of it. His hand came up to grasp Enjolras’ forearm.

“How I feel hasn’t changed one tiny bit.”

Enjolras smiles. The sun comes out.

“Come back with me tomorrow. The protest is in a couple of days’ time. I want you there.”

Grantaire snorts. “With my cynical ways and continual sowing of discord?”

“Especially with that. You’re one of us, an Ami, and I want you there.”

He has not moved his arm from Grantaire’s grip.

He sighs. “Then I’ll come. But no flyers, please.”

Enjolras chuckles. “I think we can arrange that.”

He slides his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder and clasps his hand instead. “It’s good to have you back.”

Grantaire wills himself not to freak out. He squeezes the hand in his instead. “Likewise, Apollo.”

It’s by no means completely sorted, but they’ve made a start.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Les Amis reflect, Eponine finally gets a hug from Marius, and Grantaire definitely does not ogle Enjolras. Nope. Not at all.

There’s very little to say to one another on the train home the following morning. Enjolras spends most of his time on the phone to people, checking and rechecking the arrangements for their protest. His voice gets steadily louder and louder until Grantaire lays a placating hand on his arm and tells him to ‘save your anger for the people on Friday.’

Enjolras grumbles a little about ‘bureaucratic bullshit,’ but stops shouting.

This allows Grantaire to doze off against the window. He had slept very little the night before, everything that’s happened over the course of the last four days still churning in his head. Also, the fact the Enjolras, who had taken his hand, who had slept in the next room didn’t do much to help.

So he sleeps, and Enjolras gets off the phone and fiddles with the zip on his hoodie. He keeps sneaking glances at the dark haired young man curled up next to him, the French countryside whipping by past his head. He looks so much more relaxed than usual. The alcohol gives him an edge of hyperactivity. The comedown makes him grumpy. Stripped of both, he looks more at ease, almost beautiful.

Enjolras knows now, that even when the drink is back in his hand and he is laughing too loudly to be true at something Joly or Bossuet has said, even when he is shouting cynicism across the room, he will never see Grantaire in the same way again.

He allows himself to doze a little as well, only waking when the train pulls into the Gard du Nord and Grantire is prodding him. “Move it, Apollo, I’m not spending the rest of my life stuck here.”

Combeferre is there to meet them outside the platforms. He looks tired, his hair unbrushed, his glasses missing.

“You alright, Grantaire?” he asks first.

Grantaire nods. “Just don’t ask me to explain.”

“We don’t need you to.”

Grantaire looks gratified by this, but Enjolras has known Combeferre forever and knows there is more to it than that. He meets his eyes. Combeferre gives the slightest of nods.

_Sacré bleu._

“We’re all back at mine. Courf and Eponine are still worried about you.”

“I’m sorry if I scared anyone.”

Combeferre gives Enjolras another meaningful look. “Let’s just get home, shall we?”

***

They take the Métro home, an awkward ride. Grantaire can’t help feeling that Combeferre knows more than he’s letting on, if the silent conversation he’s having with Enjolras is anything to go by.

He wishes he could switch his brain off. It’s giving him any number of horrible scenarios that make his hands tremble even more than they are already. He’s been dry all day – he’d left his hip flask at his apartment and the rest of the whiskey at the summer house.

So Grantaire is more than relieved when the train reaches their stop and they disembark, up and up into the early afternoon sun. It’s sunny and hot, and Enjolras strips off his hoodie for the fifteen minute walk to his and Combeferre apartment.

Grantaire makes himself not stare. Enjolras without his favourite hoodie is not a common sight. His arms are as stick thin as the rest of him, but a healthy thin and dotted here and there with small freckles.

Grantaire is not ogling. _Nope. Not at all….shit._

Grantaire trails Enjolras and Combeferre through the front door. Everyone is at the apartment, sprawled across the floor and various pieces of furniture. The TV is on but nobody is watching it. Nobody looks like they’ve slept.

There is a general cry of joy and then he is bombarded by a Jehan, a Courfeyrac, and an Eponine, who hits him and calls him a _connard_ before burying her face in his neck. The rest rise to clap him on the back, even Marius, though he doesn’t abandon the blonde at his side for long.

“Cosette came for the moral support,” he explains. She smiles broadly up at him.

“…ok…” He disentangles himself from Eponine. She then proceeds to drag him to the couch and curl into his side. He pats her back distractedly.

He doesn’t notice Enjolras pointedly not looking.

Jehan sits on his other side. “You ok?” he asks in a low voice.

“I should really be asking you that, shouldn’t I?” he replies.

“I’m fine, you’re the one who buggered off.”

Grantaire is about to respond when Combeferre speaks up.

“We all know.”

***

He stares at his friends.

“You mean…all of you remember now as well?”

He glances at Enjolras. This is apparently news to him too.

“And you didn’t think to mention it?” the blonde says angrily.

“You were off chasing R.” Bahorel points out.

“That isn’t the point…”

“Wait, wait wait.” Now Eponine speaks up. “When did you remember?”

“On the train. That’s still not the point.”

“Enjolras,” says Combeferre calmly. “Now is not the time to get angry. I take it all of us are on the same page, then.”

“Same ward in the loony bin,” says Feuilly from the floor, draped over Bahorel, Marius and Cosette’s feet.

The room is quiet for a few moments.

“Dare I ask what happened? And does anyone know why?” asks Grantaire. He doesn’t let go of Eponine.

“What happened was, it was a very long night,” Bahorel remarks. Courfeyrac kicks him from the armchair.

“No, seriously, why now? It’s had twenty or so years to kick in.”

“It was Marius who came up with the theory actually,” says Jehan. Marius blushes a little.

“Well, I had a look at the books. Boss reminded us that the date yesterday was June 7th, which was the day the June Rebellion….well, anyway, we’re all the right age, and so maybe that triggered it…”

Grantaire thinks. “Plausible.”

“We’ll never know in any case,” Marius adds.

“We also found out Eponine was there, though nobody knew it,” says Combeferre.

Ponine peeks out from her position by Grantaire and smiles wanly. “Can’t get rid of you motherfuckers,” she says.

“I’ve already said I’m sorry,” begins Marius.

“And I’ve already said there’s nothing to apologise for,” Eponine retorts.

“Er, sorry.” Grantaire raises a hand. “Explain, please?”

“Eponine was at the barricade disguised as a boy. She was shot protecting Marius,” Joly explains.

“Shit.” Grantaire hugs Eponine closer. She squirms a little, but this time, there is no hissing.

“Can’t catch a break,” she mutters. “I was only there for him. Certainly never planning on dying for the wanker.”

Even Cosette laughs.

Marius stands and walks over to the other sofa. He holds out a hand to Eponine. Hesitantly, she reaches out to take it. He pulls her up and into a hug.

“Thank you,” he says. “I never said it before, or last night, but thank you for protecting me.”

“Just don’t expect me to do it again,” is the growled reply, but when the young, bronze-skinned girl pulls away she is smiling.

Marius resumes his seat and flings an arm around Cosette as if to reassure her that this is where his affections lie. She smiles at him indulgently.

It’s Courfeyrac who asks the question on all their minds. “What happens now?”

“We keep going,” says Enjolras.

“No offence, Apollo, but this is kind of a big deal,” says Grantaire. “Do you think ‘Carry on’ is really going to work?”

“What other choice do we have?” The blonde looks out on all his friends. “Our demonstration is in a few days. We’ve been given another chance to make a difference, don’t you see? The fight isn’t over. This is our time. We can succeed where at first we failed. We can’t give up now. The people are rising again.”

Jehan nods. “It’s about time we started learning from the past.”

“And we have less chance of being shot,” Joly points out.

One by one the group stands. Grantaire hesitates. He has seen for himself Enjolras’ power over words, over the masses. He remembers the feeling of a crowd at boiling point, heated there by the sun god incarnate. Now, reincarnated.

He can’t watch his friends die again.

Enjolras is looking at him. Blue eyes meet blue.

“You know I’m with you,” he says. “Hell, Enjolras, I’ll follow you anywhere.” He stands beside Enjolras. The man nods and smiles.

For the first time, Grantaire stands with his friends and allows himself to feel hopeful.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a protest, a speech and an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the big one. Warnings for French swearwords, fictionalisation of real events, and possible misrepresentation of police brutality.
> 
> Just a few things for you lovely people to bear in mind. 
> 
> This protest and the riot following it actually happened. Paris (and most of France with it) was protesting the CPE - go and look it up, seriously, Enjolras would have been all over that shit. The slogans I have named are not mine - they are real, according to the BBC New Archive. R would have found them hilarious. The places are real as well. The actual protest took place in March rather than June 2006 - I’ve pushed it back as a plot thing. Sue me. 
> 
> I would also like it to go on record that the biggest march I ever took part in was Sheffield Pride in 2012, which was fun, but not quite on the same level. 
> 
> Anyone who wants a translation of the French swearing will find it here: http://www.youswear.com/index.asp?language=French#.UXg5xrVO9dJ
> 
> Anyway, enough with the massive authors note. Enjoy.

The main university square heaves with students and graduates. Banners are waving, three different protest chants resonate from separate corners. The air was humming with excitement despite the early hour.

True to his word, Enjolras hasn’t given Grantaire any flyers, but he’s mingling with the crowd, exchanging greetings and laughter. But for all the joking there’s a general air of restlessness in the mass of heaving bodies. The protesters are gathering here and then moving out towards Republic Square to join the main body of the protest.

Grantaire smiles at some of the placards being waved. “My kingdom for a job contract.” “Monsieur de Villepin, you are not king.” _If only they knew,_ he thinks. The chants are different, but the general feeling is the same. Nothing really changes.

He can’t see any of the other Amis, but he shoves his way towards the front when the march begins. On the way he passes Jehan in another floral monstrosity, blowing a whistle, Bahorel and Feuilly leading a chant with a group of rough-looking students, and Courfeyrac handing out flyers and smiles. When Grantaire reaches the front, Combeferre, Marius and Enjolras are leading the way.

The crowd of loud, angry students jostles him on all sides. He manages to find a few of his drinking buddies, some of whom are wearing bin bags, others brandishing painted sheets. He’s not entirely sure what the bin bags are for but he falls in with them which lasts until they reach Republic Square and – holy shit. If Grantaire thought their university had generated a lot of students, this was a sea.

Marius glances around and catches his eye. He grins. Grantaire can’t help grinning back.

He has his reservations, of course he does. This square is a bundle of kindling ready to catch fire. And the flame is marching in front of him like an avenging angel.

***

Enjolras disappears as the crowd disperses into the rest of the demonstrators, presumably to hunt down the Union reps. Grantaire finds Bahorel, who looks almost giddy, riding the high of the unrest mixed with hope that pervades the square.

“This is just how it was, isn’t it?” he gushes. “Like Lamarque’s funeral all over again.”

“With marginally less death, let’s hope. Also, it’s countrywide this time, hadn’t you heard?”

“As if Enjolras could shut up about it. Reincarnation seems to have made him worse.”

Grantaire snorts.

But there’s little time for dwelling. A cacophony of horns and whistles and the march is underway. Bahorel slings an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Come on, cynical winecask. Let’s make history.”

“Winecask got old 200 years ago, _mon ami_.” But Grantaire laughs, and joins Bahorel in pushing his way towards their other friends.

Jehan, Feuilly, Courf and Eponine are all brandishing signs Grantaire cannot read at his angle. Jehan is enjoying himself leading a chant. He notices Gavroche, of all people, being carried on somebody’s shoulders about a hundred yards away. Probably Joly’s or Combeferre’s. At first he thinks, ‘ _He’s just a kid, what the hell is he doing here?_ Then he remembers the little firecracker of a street urchin who had been the living embodiment of everything Enjolras and the rest fought for, the future of France condensed into one fearsomely intelligent, brave child, and thinks there’s nothing on Earth that could keep him away. He’s waving a French flag. Grantaire doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As the procession winds its way through the thronging streets of Pairs, Grantaire begins to relax, to chat with the boys and girls to either side of him, to catcall at the catcallers lining the pavements, watching the march go by. He will not admit this to anyone, not even much later, that he is beginning to enjoy himself.

The protestors reach the Place de la Nation without much drama. Some scuffles, broken up quickly, but nothing major. All in all it’s going spectacularly well. The cynic in Grantaire is wondering when the catch is coming.

There are several speeches, mostly the Union Reps in charge of the whole resistance movement, but some others stand up and take their turn as well. Enjolras is among them. It’s the first time Grantaire has seen Enjolras since the march began. And – _oh my._  If Enjolras had been radiant before, he is ablaze now.

He’s not seen Enjolras speak to a crowd for some time, and certainly not one of this size. Watching him now, he is reminded of just why he believes so strongly in the young man before him.

It’s impossible for Grantaire to fall any further for him, but somehow he manages.

Enjolras speaks of the injustice done to the people, of the lies they are told about it being for their own good. He speaks of the need to make the government listen, to stand up for their rights, their futures, their children’s futures, their friend’s futures.

The last line is said straight at Grantaire, or so he feels. He’s too far back for Enjolras to see him. He tugs his red cap down to hide his blush.

He closes by calling for continuing action, for the people to keep the faith, to not lose hope. “France is rising!” he yells into the microphone and the roar is deafening.

Grantaire begins to push his way towards the front, knowing that’s where he’ll find his friends. He scurries along the outer edge. The day is winding to a close, the police beginning to look restless behind their riot shields. Further up the edge he can see some of them moving forwards, beginning the long process of breaking up the demonstration.

And Grantaire sees one angry young student, one who has used the waves of discontent to fan his own fire, step out of the crowd and fling something at the police, and that’s when it all goes to shit

***

Enjolras has been riding the high of the crowd all day and he feels he gives some of that energy back to him when he speaks to them. There is no script, he’s never needed one. The words just come to him as he stands there. He is simply in charge of not letting them run out of control.

Combeferre is there to clap him on the back when he steps down, face flushed as red as his hoodie, eyes bright with the fever of insurrection. He sees the same look in Combeferre’s eyes and knows this is, indeed, what they were born for.

The protest is winding to a close anyway, and Enjolras is about to suggest that they go and meet the others for a well-earned drink when a scuffle breaks out to their left. The police, obviously tired with the way things are going so well, are moving in the break up the crowd. He sees one of the protestors lash out, throw something at the officers and thinks, _Oh, chier…_

Combeferre and Enjolras start towards the fight breaking out but they are too late. Other youths, inspired by their friend’s actions, begin throwing bottles and other missiles at the advancing police and _mon Dieu,_ this is exactly what Enjolras did not want to happen.

Within what seems like seconds, everything is chaos. It spreads through the crowd like a mist and – _merde,_ _is that tear gas?_

The shouting has gone from angry to furious. The atmosphere at this demonstration has turned to rage. Enjolras knows there is nothing he can do to calm it.

Enjolras grabs Combeferre’s arm. “Get everyone together, tell them to clear out and take as many people as they can with them.” Things are hurtling south.

“What about you?”

Enjolras is not listening. He sees the flash of a red newsboy cap down near the source of the violence. _Grantaire._ And he dropped his phone in the Seine last week while on a bender…

“Just get on with it!” he yells and hares towards the familiar cap. _S’il te plait, Taire, don’t do anything stupid …”_

He is shoving people aside, they barely notice. The riot police are pushing back, shields raised. The demonstrators are falling away, shouting orders at each other, and Enjolras is taken back to 1832, when his own voice had been giving the orders. _“TO THE BARRIACDES!”_

He can’t see Grantaire.

He turns to one side to see a police truncheon whistling towards him – of course, they think he’s one of the troublemakers. He doesn’t have time to duck aside. Reflexively he shuts his eyes.

But the blow never falls. A streak of green and red appears out of nowhere and knocks him aside. The blow falls on him instead. The man collapses atop Enjolras. The policeman moves away, distracted by other rioters. From somewhere smoke is rolling in. He doesn’t know if it’s tear gas or not. He doesn’t care either.

Because Grantaire is lying atop him, eyes closed, with a trickle of blood oozing from under his cap.

***

Enjolras world narrows for a second to nothing but this.

He pushes Grantaire off him, rolls him onto his back and cradles his head. “You stupid  _connard,_ ” he whispers. “Shit, Grantaire…”

Somebody grabs him and he crouches defensively, reflexively, but it’s only Combeferre. “What the fuck?” he says. And then, seeing Grantaire, “Oh _hell!”_

“Where the hell is Joly?” Enjolras shouts above the noise echoing around them.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t need Joly, dammit, he needs an ambulance!”

“WELL THEN GET ONE!” Enjolras yells.

Combeferre looks taken aback, but he pulls out his phone once again. Enjolras turns back to the unconscious man.

“I don’t ask it of you, you little shit,” he whispers. “Why the hell do you have to keep giving it? Your life is worth as much as mine. Please, R? I know you only let your friends call you that, but please. Open your eyes, be alright.”

He doesn’t want to take the cap off, doesn’t want to see the extent of the possible damage.

Joly appears from somewhere – he can’t have been that far away at all – brandishing a medical kit. “Enjolras, move,” he orders. Enjolras stays put.

“Fine, don’t move.” He peels off the newsboy cap, turns Grantaire’s head, still in Enjolras lap, this way and that.

“The others?” asks Combeferre.

“Fine, as far as I can tell. Bossuet went with them. They were trying to get some of the younger kids out of the line of fire. What the hell happened to him?”

“Some _salaud_  policeman caught him with a truncheon,” says Enjolras quietly. “He took the blow meant for me.”

 _“Fais chier,_ ” mutters Joly. “Called an ambulance for him yet?”

“It’s on its way,” Combeferre replies. Sirens are already echoing in the distance. Whether police or emergency services, Enjolras doesn’t know. The battered god, the leader of the revolution, simply kneels on the cold concrete to wait for help, his friend’s blood staining his marble white hands.

He doesn’t speak aloud. His words now are for the unconscious Grantaire alone. There is no script, he does not ponder them.

***

_Please, Grantaire. Don’t die now. I don’t permit it this time._

_I just got you back._

_Please…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY (I'm really not)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras is cross, Grantaire is unreprentant, and there is a kiss in a hospital room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. F**king finally, right? 
> 
> FYI I know nothing about hospitals, especially Parisian ones so...yeah...
> 
> Enjoy xx

Courfeyrac bursts into the hospital and makes a beeline for Marius. He’s waiting with Combeferre and Joly in the main lobby.

“What the holy hell?!” he exclaims. “What happened to Taire?”

“He tried to break up a fight, got hit by a police truncheon protecting Enjolras.” It’s Combeferre that speaks.

Courfeyrac swears. “Where is he now?”

“Who, Grantaire?” asks Joly.

“No, the Pied Piper of bloody Hamlin, of course Grantaire, _idiot!_ ”

Combeferre stands. “Calm down Courf. He’s through here.”

Marius nods to them and slips away.

Combeferre leads the way down a white, bleach smelling corridor and into a ward lined with beds, protected only by flimsy, tasteless floral curtains.

Combeferre pushes back the curtains. Courfeyrac blinks.

Enjolras looks terrible, hollowed eyed and paler than usual. He matches the dark-haired man lying in the bed, a bandage across his forehead, a drip in his arm. Enjolras is holding his hand.

This is surprising by itself. Courfeyrac remembers well that Enjolras had never liked Grantaire, both now and 200 years ago.

He can puzzle it out later.

Combeferre moves to Enjolras and places a hand on his shoulder. The young man appears not to notice. Courfeyrac walks to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, Taire,” he says. And to the other two, “How has he been?”

“He’s been unconscious since they brought him in. They say he’ll wake up but they can’t say when,” says Enjolras hoarsely. “He was protecting me.”

“So I’ve heard.” Courfeyrac sits down on his friend’s bed, infection control be dammed. He takes his other hand.

“How are the others?”

“Jehan and Bossuet are looking after some of the other people injured. I think Eponine went with them. As for the rest, I think they went back to Feuilly’s to lay low. I think he literally had to drag Bahorel away by the balls.” Courfeyrac pauses. “They’re setting cars alight. Paris look like it’s burning. It’s happening in Marseilles as well. I hear they’re raising barricades.”

Combeferre smiles quietly. Enjolras does not.

“I wasn’t expecting it to happen again. I never asked him to try and protect me,” he says.

There’s nothing any of them can think of to say to that.

“What happened to you two? Back before?” asks Combeferre. “You never really said.

Enjolras’ hand tightens on Grantaire’s. “He was drunk,” he says tersely. “He’d passed out. After you lot had all…well, I was alone, facing the firing squad and he woke up. He could have saved himself, but he chose to die with me.”

Courfeyrac closes his eyes. 200 years ago, he had suspected that Grantaire had harboured less than platonic feelings for Enjolras. Today, he was certain of it.

He looked down at his friend, the reason he and Jehan had met. “Oh you silly fool,” he muttered.

***

Grantaire’s first sensation is one of pain. The second is awareness of a bright white light. The third is more pain. _Close the fucking curtains, Jehan,_ he thinks. _It’s too early to be alive. What was I drinking last night?_ His skull feels like it’s been split down the middle. This is no regular hangover.

And then he becomes aware that somebody is holding his hand. This is really no hangover.

He tries to peel his eyes open. It’s hard. His eyelids feel sticky, like the always do when he’s been asleep for a while. There’s low voices coming from somewhere and an unpleasantly clean smell.

He tries to speak but all that comes out is an incoherent noise. The voices stop.

“Taire?” That’s Courfeyrac. “Taire, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?” The pressure on his hand increases, and then goes away. He tries to chase it, but his limbs feel heavy. He misses it.

Then his eyes open and – _merde_.

There is Courfeyrac, looked panicked, there is Combeferre, looking relieved, and there is Enjolras, looking…Grantaire can’t name the emotion on his face. He is standing further back from the others.

The last day comes rushing back to him. No alcohol, just a police truncheon whistling towards Enjolras’ head.

“Ah, _crap_ ,” he mutters.

“Taire? How do you feel?”

“Like somebody took an axe to my skull.” In his peripheral vision he sees Enjolras slide out and feels a strong stab of disappointment.

Courfeyrac gives Combeferre a look. He slips out after Enjolras.

“What happened?”

“You took a police truncheon aiming for Enjolras,” says Combeferre.

“Yeah…I remember that. What happened after that?”

“I got you an ambulance. Enjolras yelled at everyone for about five minutes. Then the paramedics turned up and carted you both away. He refused to let go of you.”

Grantaire doesn’t believe him. “Shut up.”

“No word of a lie. I’ve never seen him so scared for someone in my life.”

Courfeyrac slides back in past the curtains and nods at ‘Ferre.

“I’ll go and…talk to the nurse. They’ll want to know you’ve woken up.” Combeferre stands and exits the little booth.

Courfeyrac gives him a wan smile as he sits by his bed. “Had us worried there for a second, R.”

“Sorry Courf.” He pats the hand lying on the bed. Then something occurs to him. “Were you the one holding my hand earlier?”

“Briefly. Why?”

“I just thought…” He recalls Enjolras walking out, the strange emotions still written on his face. He wants, more than he’s ever wanted anything before, for history to not repeat itself. He thinks watching Enjolras die again would be less painful than watching him walk away. Because no matter what he says, who would want a wastrel like Grantaire protecting them? He’s unreliable, a drunkard.

Then the nurse bustles in and throws Courfeyrac out. He has to sit through what seem like endless questions about obvious yet important information, and then he’s left in peace again.

Low murmurings he can’t catch hum through the curtain. Then it pulls back and Enjolras is there. He stayed.

Courfeyrac is at his shoulder. He whispers something in the blonde’s ear. Enjolras’ expression becomes confused for a minute, but then the other two are gone, and the two are left alone.

 

They stand in silence.

“Hi Apollo,” says Grantaire, smiling weakly. Enjolras does not return it.

 _“Vien m’enculer,_ Grantaire, wasn’t once enough?”

Under any other circumstances, the sound of Enjolras swearing would be hilarious.

“I told you, nothing about the way I feel has changed.”

“That does not mean you have to chuck yourself into my line of fire every goddamn time. Jesus Christ, does your life mean anything to you at all?”

“Do you want the short answer to that? Not without you.” He tries to sit up, but Enjolras is there, pressing him gently back down.

“Don’t you dare do any more damage to yourself than you already have.”

Grantaire lies back. Enjolras stays sat on the bed.  

“You’re angry.”

“Damn right. You could have died.”

“Better me than you. Do I have to keep repeating myself? You’re worth so much more than me. I’m just a drunkard on the way to failing an art degree. You’re going places. And when you’ll get there you’ll see I was right, that having me around just held you back.”

Enjolras hangs his head.

“Were you listening to one fucking word I said three days ago?” he asks, in a voice of forced patience.

“Of course.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything less than serious?”

“…no.”

“Then believe me when I say you are worth something. I have said it before, and I will keep saying it until it penetrates that think layer of scepticism you have wrapped around your brain. I do not ask you to save me if it means putting yourself at unnecessary risk.” He takes Grantaire’s hand – and there’s that warmth again.

So Enjolras had been the one holding his hand?

“I don’t want you to die or get seriously hurt because you think you should for me.”

Grantaire says nothing.  “I don’t want that to happen to you either. Since you’re the one most likely to be in the line of fire. You scared me today. Badly.”

“Not as much as you scared me, I’m willing to bet.”

“You were scared for me?”

“Beyond belief.”

Grantaire takes a second to process this. “It was that bad?”

Enjolras nods.

Unconsciously Grantaire squeezes the hand held in his. “They say I’ll be ok.”

“Christ, Grantaire, that isn’t the point!” Enjolras pulls out of Grantaire’s grip and runs his hands through his madly curling hair. “I don’t need you making yourself into a martyr for me. Although…” He resumes his seat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose I ought to thank you. I owe you my continued wellbeing.”

“It was my pleasure, Apollo.”

There is a pause.

“When you say your feelings haven’t changed…you mean more than what you said about being nothing without me, didn’t you?” Enjolras asks tentatively.

Grantaire has to turn away, laughing mirthlessly, because _fils de salope,_ this is going to be the part that hurts. “Yes, Apollo, yes I did.”

“Taire…”

“No, really, it’s ok. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I mean, hell, you were blind as the proverbial bat back in 1832 as well. Times may be different now, but feelings don’t change. Not these kinds of feelings.”

“But things have changed,” Enjolras replies. “I know now.”

“And what difference, pray tell me, does it make? You’re still the revolutionary, and I’m still the cynical waste of space. Never the twain should – _mph!”_

He remark is cut off as Enjolras grabs his face and clumsily presses his lips to Grantaire’s.

He stiffens in surprise. Then he decides to _what the fuck, just go with it_ and allows himself to melt.

It’s nothing like all the fantasies he’d tried to bury. It’s a little awkward, Enjolras’ inexperience showing and noses knock and Grantaire’s head is bent at an uncomfortable angle and _please don’t stop._

It’s over much too soon. Enjolras pulls back and gives him an uneasy look. Grantaire is not to know he’s panicking, thinking of what Courfeyrac told him. _Go easy. He’s in love with you._

_Was that too far? Oh hell…_

“What?” asks Grantaire, trying to wrench his thoughts back into some kind of coherence. “Was that?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Holy fucking shit, _yes there does._ ” Grantaire exhales through his nose and forces himself not to just lean forward and ravish Enjolras’ mouth. “Because if this is out of pity, or gratitude, or whatever other shit, I swear to God I will kick your arse seven ways to Sunday.”

Enjolras responds by kissing him again and this time Grantaire has to swallow a moan. He opens his mouth under Enjolras’ ministrations and brings one hand up, IV line still in, to tangle on golden curls. A warm hand rest on his cheek, keeping him in place. As if he’s going anywhere.

But eventually they have to come up for air.

“When you were lying there, with blood running down your face, I had my own epiphany,” says Enjolras in a low voice. His hand remains on Grantaire’s cheek. “You recall, you said you saw your life without me in it, and you may as well have died?”

Grantaire nods. He does not tear his eyes from Enjolras’.

“I saw my life without you in it. The sheer emptiness scared me.”

Grantaire initiates this kiss, short, and sweet and fairly chaste. He gives his self control a mental pat on the back. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere, isn’t it?”

Enjolras positively beams.

Grantaire looks down on their hands, joined once again on the bedsheets.

“I’m not easy, but you already know that. I’m a drunkard. I’m insecure and a bit clingy at times and I never remember to be places on time. This isn’t going to be plain sailing.”

“Whoever said it was? I’m a nightmare when I have deadlines, I hardly sleep and you know about my temper. But don’t you think pain sailing would be a little boring?”

Grantaire laughs and squeezes his hand.

Their lives – both of them – have been many things. Boring was never one. And he looks in Enjolras’ smiling eyes again and thinks, _This might work._

 


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a wedding, some surprises, and terrible dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shipping all the ships right here. What can I say, they're an incestuous bunch.

Even two years on, Grantaire doesn’t think it will ever sink in, that the godlike man he has adored for two centuries is sitting beside him, loosely twining his fingers between his own beneath the table. That he wants him.

The room is humming beneath the blaring music. He’s pretty sure it’s Bossuet spiking the punch with Gavroche. Joly is oblivious, instead checking the glassware for suspect smudges as best he can under the purple and blue lighting in the reception hall. The cheesy pop music is painful to listen to, but it’s standard wedding fare. Grantaire thinks, from his conversations with Eponine, it might even have been Cosette’s idea. Marius famously hates this stuff, but there they are, out on the dance floor, twirling happily to the Spice Girls, or whatever it is. Wonders will never cease.

“Could you get any more predictable than those two?” Courfeyrac says across the table.

Grantaire pokes him with his foot. “You can talk.” He indicates the silver band on Courfeyrac’s left hand.

“Oh shush. You wouldn’t think there’d be any surprises in this group, would you?”

Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire laughs. Credit to the two impulsive young people, they’d waited until graduating from university before tying the knot. Not officially, of course, but official enough for Jehan and Courfeyrac. Marius and Cosette’s engagement had followed hot on their heels. A year later, here they are again.

Courf and Jehan have been practically married since the day they met, and Marius and Cosette…well, turns out not even two hundred years can keep these two apart.

But there ends the predictability.

Grantaire had worried about Eponine since Cosette had roped in her old foster sister and new friend into the wedding plans, but to his surprise she had thrown herself into it with obvious enjoyment. She is now the other side of the room. Combeferre is trying to teach her how to waltz. Their shine to one other is another surprise.

“Combeferre likes them a bit mad,” Enjolras had said.

“And how do you like them?” Grantaire had asked him.

Enjolras chuckled, a heavy sound in the darkness of his bedroom. “I like them rake thin…” He’d rolled over and kissed Grantaire’s forehead, “…artistic…” His nose. “And tasting slightly like whiskey.” He’d kissed Grantaire’s mouth and it had been the last word either of them had spoken in a while.

Grantaire smiles at the memory.

The surprises haven’t stopped there. Joly’s plus one – Musichetta - is chatting to Jehan in one corner. Grantaire has only recently learned she’s involved with both Joly and Bossuet. He can’t recall if this was a thing in their last life, he’d never really listened to the others talk of their conquests.

Bahorel and Feuilly can be seen in one corner, heads bent together. The only difference is that their thighs are touching. Grantaire nudges Enjolras, pointing them out. “Took them long enough to get their shit together.”

“You’re one to talk,” Enjolras retorts. “It took us two hundred years.”

Grantaire concedes his point.

Enjolras. The other surprise.

The first time Grantaire had ever seen Enjolras, he had thought that if love at first sight was possible, he had just experienced it. This blonde firebrand that lit up the Musian two hundred years ago, had brought the sun into a life that had fallen into shadow. Unfortunately, that human sun had proved as untouchable as the real one.

Grantaire can’t remember who said that light cannot exist without the dark and vice versa, but they were absolutely right. It had taken two hundred years, but the satellite and the sun had come together. They had fallen naturally into one another’s apartments, beds and lives.

Grantaire is drinking less and drawing more. He has an exhibition in a few weeks. Enjolras is sleeping better. Not much else has changed about him but Grantaire certainly prefers him sleep-ruffled and mellow to cranky.

Of course it’s not always perfectly smooth going. Their fights are explosive. But the make-up sex is extraordinary.

He recalls the night they found out the CPE had been dropped. Grantaire blushed a little at the memory.

Enjolras notices, even in the funny light. “What?”

“Nothing.” He squeezes his boyfriend’s hand.

The song changes, a slightly number. Grantaire looks to Enjolras. “Dance with me?”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “You hate this music.”

“Yes, and I’m asking you to dance with me. Because I love you.”

He remembers their first “I love you” as well. A run home in the rain, soaked, bright eyed and panting in Enjolras’ hallway. It had just slipped out of him. Grantaire had almost passed out when Enjolras had smiled brightly and returned it.

That night had been pretty unforgettable as well.

The blonde man rolls his eyes but allows Grantaire to pull him to him feet and onto the dancefloor.

“You forget, I can’t dance,” he says.

“You forget, I can. Follow my lead.” Grantaire takes him in a ballroom hold and they begin to revolve.

Enjolras stumbles a little. His natural talents definitely do not extend to dancing, thinks Grantaire affectionately.

He takes a second to glance around at the room full of his oldest and dearest friends. Courfeyrac and Jehan are dancing terribly, enthusiastically, ecstatically. Eponine and Combeferre have gotten the hang of waltzing. Bahorel and Feuilly remain in the corner, and have been joined by Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly. Marius and Cosette have disappeared.

Reunited.

He holds Enjolras closer. They’ve found an uncertain rhythm and Grantaire thinks his heart might burst from sheer happiness. A sensation he’s still not used to after so many years in the dark.

Enjolras laces their fingers together. “Oh, by the way,” he says casually, close enough to be heard over the music. “I love you, too.”

Grantaire beams, leans in and captures Enjolras’ lips.

They have to stop dancing but they don’t stop kissing, and if Jehan and Courfeyrac start catcalling they choose not to hear.

Their lives have led, finally, to each other and they are exactly where they want to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say, if you've taken the time to read this, thank you. I had so much fun writing this, I love it, and I hope you do as well. Come find me on tumblr (I'm twilightshadow again), and see you next time xx


	16. NSFW Cut Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cut scene from This Could Lead To Something. In which there is cuddles and sex, not in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very very NSFW. Also please note this is the first, and to date only porn scene I have ever written, no idea if it's any good. Just...ok, I'm just gonna leave this here.

Enjolras has a double bed with new, predictable red covers. Grantaire is too occupied with the pale hands currently cupping his arse and the tongue currently plundering his mouth to care.

Enjolras has him up against the door, one hand tangled in his curls and the other kneading his ass-cheek through his jeans. The erection burning a solid line up his groin is matched only by his own aching hard-on and _there are too many clothes in the room right now…_

By far one of Grantaire’s favourite discoveries about his boyfriend (apart from a fondness for singing show tunes while cooking and an unhealthy obsession with tart aux pommes) was his attitude to bedroom activities. At this point his appetite is getting in the way.

“Enjolras…” he gasps between filthy, lustful kisses. “Why the hell are we still clothed?”

“Good question,” replies the blonde, and promptly shoved his tongue back down Grantaire’s throat. _Ok then._

It’s been a long day for the revolutionaries-turned-activists. Enjolras has Les Amis on their toes for their latest cause, on top of a day in the stuffy studio for Grantaire. The warm air and bright sunlight of Paris in summer is bringing out one of Grantaire’s pet peeves – camera-toting tourists, who never fail to get in the way of a good view. The prospect of seeing Enjolras that night had been the thought which sustained him throughout the day.

It’s a while before Grantaire is able to wriggle away enough to pull his t-shirt over his head. He takes advantage of the distance to shove Enjolras back towards his bed. The artist walks him backwards until his calves hit the mattress and he tumbles backwards and _Christ,_ Enjolras spread beneath him, even fully clothed, is like nectar for his world-weary eyes.

The blonde sits up and peels away his upper layers before tugging Grantaire down on top of him, chest to chest. Their lips met again, open-mouthed and wet, but somehow sweeter, the promise of what was to come calming their previous frenzy.

Grantaire allows one hand to trail Enjolras’ stomach, fingers ghosting over slightly freckled muscle and fine dark blonde hair that trails into his jeans. His fingers deftly flip open the button and slowly tug down the zip.

For someone with comparatively little experience, Enjolras is certainly no shrinking violet. His hands slip below the waist of Grantaire’s jeans and _press_ , so his hips dip and rub against the blonde’s erection.

Grantaire gasps. “ _Merde,_ Enjolras…” The frisson running up his body is incredible.

“Then for God’s sake, get these bloody trousers out of the way.”

Grantaire hums into the blonde’s mouth before pulling away and shedding his jeans and boxer briefs. When he turns back to the bed, Enjolras has done the same and if Grantaire was aroused before, he feels like he is about to spontaneously combust.

He is resplendent, laid out on the bedclothes, head resting on the pillows at the head of the bed. “Get over here,” he says, in his best Bossy Revolutionary Leader voice.

Grantaire pretty much pounces on him, his heavier frame covering perfectly the lankier form of his partner. Their bodies align as they come together and the next few minutes are lost in a mess of lips and tongues and fingers and flesh moving in tandem.

Grantaire presses one last kiss to Enjolras’ lips, and then moved away to trail small, biting kisses down his neck and across his collarbone. Enjolras’ fingers tighten on his hips when he hits the sweet spot just above the junction of his neck and shoulder. “God, ‘taire…”

“Just ‘Grantaire’ will do. I’m not the god in the room,” Grantaire replies, but his smile infuses his voice. Enjolras lightly smacks his left buttock but he is also smiling.

Grantaire continues his journey down Enjolras’ body. He runs his tongue over one nipple, teasing it erect before he rolls it lightly between his teeth. His lover arches up into him, cock brushing against his lower stomach. Grantaire groans, and moves his ministrations to Enjolras’ other nipple. Enjolras’ hands, usually never still, can only grip his sides as he works him up.

He moves down the pale, freckled body, pressing kisses where he wants, dipping a tongue into his navel. He always thinks Enjolras’ skin tastes of sunlight, a subtle, almost sweet sensation on his tongue.

He wants to draw it out, to really drive his lover mad, but he’s barely reached the darker curls at the base of his straining cock before Enjolras is drawing him back up for another filthy kiss, flipping him onto the pillows and rising above him. Unlike Grantaire, he wastes no time.

“You -” He presses a wet kiss to the side of R’s neck, “Goddamn -” He licks a long line down his torso as far as his belly-button, “Pricktease.” And without warning he swallows Grantaire.

Grantaire arches off the bed. “Fuck! Jesus…fucking Christ, Enjolras…your _mouth, viens m’enculer_ …this will not last long if you carry on like that…”

Enjolras pulls off with an obscene sound. “Then make it last.” He goes straight back to bombarding Grantaire with sensation. His hands rest on his hips, stopping him from involuntarily thrusting up into his mouth. All Grantaire can do is writhe. His hands tangle in blonde curls as Enjolras’s mouth and _tongue_ move up and down his cock, sending shivers up and down his spine. Heat begins to build in his lower stomach, rising until it almost fills him...

“Oh Dieu…Enjolras… _fuck,_ I’m so close…please…”

Enjolras pulls off once again and reaches up and into his bedside drawer, withdrawing a bottle of lube and a condom. He sits back on his heels and flips up the cap of the lubricant.

His eyes rake over the darker man beneath him. Grantaire feels the intensity of that gaze like a laser, and sees lust mixed with something much deeper in his eyes.

If Grantaire had been poetically inclined he could write sonnets about those eyes. As it is, he can only appreciate the way the lust darkens their usual summer sky colour, and the way that something bordering on adoration brightens and soften them at the same time. Once again, he wonders how the hell he managed to get this lucky, that a god like this is taking him to bed, is now slicking up his fingers and moving them down behind him balls to nudge at his entrance.

Grantaire groans as it pushes past the tight ring of muscle, slowly, invading him to the knuckle. He wants to watch, but Enjolras crooks that finger _just so_ and his head flops involuntarily backwards with a strangled cry.

He catches sight of his lover’s expression.  An element of satisfaction has crept into it. Grantaire decides he can’t wait until it is once again his turn to top. He wants to wipe that expression right off his face, but a second finger had joined the first and his train of thought scatters.

Enjolras takes his time, scissoring his fingers gently, slowly opening him up, only adding a third finger when he feels Grantaire can take it. By now Grantaire is all but fucking himself onto Enjolras’ hand. “Please…please, I can take it, just _get inside me for chrissake…_ ”

Enjolras smiles at him, and leans up give him a kiss too sweet for a man with most of a hand in his arse.

He keens a little at the loss when Enjolras withdraws said hand, but those same fingers are now tearing open the condom packet and rolling it on carefully. He recalls the horrifying night it had split, which kills his arousal a little, but then Enjolras is pouring more lube into his hand and slicking up his cock.

Grantaire kicks up his legs around the blonde’s waist. Enjolras lines himself up. He felt the blunt head of his cock nudging at his entrance.

Enjolras leans up over him. “Ready?” he murmurs.

“God, yes…”

Enjolras thrusts forwards and fills him.

Grantaire gasps at the stretch at first. Enjolras reaches and brushes a sweaty dark curl off his forehead, before he begins to move, ever so maddeningly slowly. His mouth goes back to that spot on his neck and begins gently sucking on it. “So damn beautiful,” he murmurs against sweat-dampened skin.

Grantaire will never get used to this. He, who has never been called so much as ‘good looking’ in his life, having endearments whispered in his ear by a golden sun god that he once gave his life for.

But these are thoughts for later, when Enjolras lies, sweaty and sleepy and boneless in his arms. For now he loses himself in the natural lubrication that their sweat produces, and the man moving within him. Every once in a while he brushes against that special sweet spot and Grantaire bucks up into him. He hitches his legs higher, around Enjolras’ ribcage – oh, and _that’s_ and better angle.

Enjolras is moving faster now. His breathing has become erratic, a sure sign that he is close. He works a hand between them and grasps Grantaire’s leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“’…’Jolras…I’m close,” Grantaire gasps, overwhelmed by incredible sensations. “So…so fucking close.”

“Then come. Go on, ‘Taire, _mon amour._ Come for me.”

That’s enough. One final stroke and Grantaire is coming between them, painting both their bodies with his seed. His muscles clench around Enjolras, making him gasp. Two or three more erratic thrusts and he’s coming as well, shuddering through his release.

He pulls out and collapses on top of the darker man. Grantaire is treated to a faceful of blonde curls. He presses a gentle kiss into them and wraps his arms around the spent man.

The room fills with their heavy, exhausted breathing far a long, long minute.

Eventually, Enjolras rouses himself enough to remove the condom, tie it off and throw it in the direction of the bin. He flops back to the pillows and curls into Grantaire’s side.

“We should clean off as well…” Grantaire murmurs.

“Mmmm…fuck off. Post-coital bliss first.”

Grantaire smiles indulgently, even though Enjolras cannot see it. This is another favourite aspect of Enjolras – his penchant for snuggles, after sex, during sleepy mornings, on the sofa while Grantaire sketches. He winds his limbs around his boyfriend, one knee between his legs, an arm curled about his shoulders, the other cradling his head against his shoulder. His fingers card the damp curls.

This was perhaps his favourite part of sex with Enjolras.

He had been Enjolras’ first. He was the only one who got to see him like this. Selfishly perhaps, he loved it. It made him a little possessive. But if someone had told him, in his first life, that one day that beautiful man that he watched from the corner of the café, alight with revolutionary fervour, would be cuddled into his side, sweaty and sated from making love, he would have accused them of drugging his wine. That was enough to make anyone a little possessive, especially one with Grantaire’s mental history.

Enjolras has an arm hooked about his neck, and sticky fingers playing with the curls at the base of his neck. His eyes are closed. To anyone else he looked fast asleep. But the small smile on his face belied this.

“’m glad we found each other again,” he says quietly.

“I’m glad we found each other the first time,” Grantaire replies.

Enjolras opens one eye. “Do you think we’d have found each other anyway? Even if we’d never lived that other life?”

Grantaire doesn’t want to think about that. “Maybe. I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Me too.” Enjolras buries his head in the curve between Grantaire’s shoulder and ear. “Love you…” He drifted away into sleep.  

Wouldn’t the Grantaire of old have given everything he had to hear him say that. The cynical side of him still refused to believe it, but not even he could deny the evidence of his eyes and arms. And the man filling them.

Grantaire kissed the little of his forehead he could reach.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back, and succumbs to sleep himself. 


End file.
